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DRAMAS OF LIFE 
































XovelPs International Series, IRo. 127. 




DRAMAS OF LIFE 


< 

BY v C 

y 

GEORGE R. SIMS 


AUTHOR OF 

“TALES OF TO-DAY,” “LIGHTS o’ LONDON,"’ “THREE BLACK BALLS 

ETC , ETC, 





NEW YORK: 

UNITED STATES BOOK COMPANY 

SUCCESSORS TO 

JOHN W. LOVELL COMPANY 

150 WORTH ST., COR. MISSION PLACE 



•“D H-'JP 



Copyright, 1890, 

BY 

UNITED STATES BOOK COMPANY. 



t 



) 


CONTENTS 




The Millionaire’s Secret 

The Mysterious Crossing-Sweeper. . 

Uncle from* America 

The Suicide’s Legacy 

That Wicked Girl 

Why he was Hanged 

Letty Klein 

A Lady-Killer 

A Bijou Residence 

Gunning’s Luck 

“Pa.” 

For a Man’s Life 

A Put-up Job 

Jim Crowe’s Sister 

The Fortunes of the Featherweights 
The Last Letter 


PAGB 

7 

22 

37 

52 

85 

99 

no 

138 

152 

182 

196 

210 

222 

234 

258 

270 
















DRAMAS OF LIFE 


THE MILLIONAIRE’S SECRET. 

‘ ‘ Are you all right, Bill ? ” 

“Yes, Jack, it’s a big drop — take care.” One man 
stood on one side of a high wall, and spoke to the other 
man who was on the other side. The big wall marked 
the extent of the grounds of Colston Hall, Surrey, the 
residence of Thomas. Smith, Esq., J.P., the richest man in 
the county. 

The time was two o’clock in the morning. The two 
gentlemen who were conversing were housebreakers, 
Messrs. William Hicks and John Gorman, both renowned 
in their profession as old and experienced hands, and 
credited with having been concerned in some of the big- 
gest burglaries of the past five years. Both had done 
what is technically known as “time.” Mr. Hicks had 
been compelled to retire from business for five, and Mr. 
Gorman for seven years, but these are little drawbacks 
inseparable from the profession, and in all professions 
you must take the rough with the smooth. 

Punishment is, I believe, commonly supposed to have 
a deterrent effect on crime. The only punishment that 
is absolutely deterrent is capital punishment. No mur- 
derer who has been hanged has ever been known to 
repeat his offence. All other punishments are simply 
deterrent during the time they are in force. The loss of 
their liberty seems to be accepted by the criminal classes 
much as the gambling classes accept the loss of their 


8 


DRAMAS OF LIFE . 


money. They have played the game and they must pay 
the stake. The stake paid, the next thing is to play the 
game again, and see if fortune won’t be more favorable. 
It is very seldom you pick up the daily paper without 
reading of the old lady who has been a “ hundred times 
convicted,” of the middle-aged man who has spent twenty 
years out of his forty-five in prison — of the thief who has 
performed such a variety of sentences, of from three 
months to two years, that the judge gives him five years 
as a “steadier,” and promises him seven if at the end 
of that period he renews his acquaintance. No sooner 
does the now familiar head-line, “The Burglary Season,” 
appear in the newspapers, as the days shorten, than a 
host of the professors of the midnight art appear at the 
bar of public justice, and in two-thirds of the cases, when 
it comes to the sentence, the judge is informed that there 
are “several previous convictions” against the prisoner. 
After many years’ careful study of the criminal classes, I 
have come to the conclusion that they do not object to 
prison life at all, especially in bad times, when good jobs 
are scarce — that the only thing which prompts thieves to 
run away, and burglars to shoot policemen is the hered- 
itary instinct of self-preservation. Heredity has much 
more to do with the manners and customs of the criminal 
classes than reason or a careful computation of chances. 

Messrs. William Hicks and John Gorman, the two 
burglars now making their way cautiously across the 
grounds of Thomas Smith, Esq., J.P., towards the man- 
sion, were hereditary criminals — good, sound, straight- 
forward representatives of their class. I have no doubt 
that both of them would have considered, had they 
attended an adult Sunday-school, and been initiated late 
in life into the accepted catechism of the Church, that as 
burglars they “did their duty in that station of life unto 
which it had pleased God to call them,” and they would 
have explained that they considered it their duty, as 


DRAMAS OF LIFE . 


9 


respectable and decent burglars of the higher class, not 
to knock the inmates of a house about if they didn't inter- 
fere — not to shoot or bludgeon a policeman unless he 
gave chase to them, and not to peach on the pals that got 
away if they themselves were caught. Herein consists — 
I was gravely assured once, by a retired member of the 
craft whom I had the pleasure of meeting at a free-and- 
easy concert, given for the benefit of a burglar’s widow 
and family — “the whole duty of a housebreaker who 
respects himself.” 

Messrs. William Hicks and John Gorman respected 
themselves, and they had arranged the attack on the 
mansion of the J.P. with strict attention to the rules of 
the game. The dog had been duly “got at” — a male 
servant sleeping in the house had been arranged with — 
Mr. Gorman himself dressed in his Sunday broadcloth, 
had duly taken stock of the position of the various 
rooms, staircases, etc., while explaining to the house- 
keeper the inestimable advantage of the new patent 
gas consuming burners which save 50 per cent, in 
gas and are never known to black a ceiling. The 
enterprising traveller in the new patent gas burners 
had begged to be allowed to fit one or two to the chan- 
deliers and gas brackets, and, although not allowed to 
carry out his desire of fixing them in every room on 
approval, he had managed to see nearly all he wanted to 
while engaging the elderly lady in conversation. He 
fitted one on to the knight in armor holding a lamp up 
on the lower landing, with extraordinary dexterity, and 
was up the second flight and on the bedroom floor before 
the old lady had time to say “That’ll do, thank you. I’ll 
see how these answer first.” Then he had presented her 
with a card of the firm he represented (it was a genuine 
firm’s card which he had obtained), and left, perfectly 
satisfied that the burners he had fitted on would not lead 
to any further correspondence with the aforesaid house of 


10 


DRAMAS OF LIFE. 


business. Mr. William Hicks, Mr. Gorman’s usual com- 
panion in big jobs requiring nerve, skill, coolness and 
address, left all these preliminaries to his partner with 
confidence. He was not a Londoner, and he lacked the 
commercial stamp of respectability. He was a country- 
man born and bred, hailing from a picturesque village 
in the neighborhood of Sheffield, where his youth and 
early manhood had been passed in acquiring local fame. 
But after bringing off the biggest burglary ever known in 
the county of Yorkshire, Bill came up to London, feeling 
that the great Metropolis would offer an extensive field 
more worthy of his talents. He was also induced to 
abandon his county by the fact that the local police on 
his release from prison so far forgot that fairness which 
is the first element in British justice as to follow him 
about, spy upon him, and generally to hamper his arrange- 
ments for future business. 

The reader having now been properly introduced to 
Messrs. Hicks and Gorman, will feel at greater liberty to 
accompany them on their visit to the mansion of Thomas 
Smith, Esq., J. P. 

Cautiously picking their way over the grass-plots and 
the flower-beds, and carefully avoiding the gravel paths, 
probably with a polite desire not to disturb any of the 
sleeping inmates, the two men, all the necessary im- 
plements of their trade in their capacious side-pockets, 
stole softly round to the back part of the mansion where 
their entrance was to be effected. 

Everything was propitious — the moon was faithful to 
the calculations they had made by the aid of the calendar, 
and remained in seclusion ; the little ladder was hidden 
cautiously in the shrubbery, just where they would have 
wished it to be, and when, climbing gently up it, they 
reached the window they had selected as the weak point 
in the enemy’s defence, they had only to cut a pane of 
the outer glass away, and then two shutters yielded to a 


DRAMAS OF LIFE . 


II 


little gentle pressure and swung noiselessly back. A few 
more delicate operations, and then through the now open 
window went Mr. Hicks, followed carefully by his friend, 
Mr. Gorman. Their india-rubber shoes fell noiselessly 
alike on stone and carpet, their dark lanterns carefully 
manipulated, yielded just the faint gleams of light they 
needed, and so they stole noiselessly towards the room in 
which the plate was secured. Just then, while they were 
giving a passing glance round the dining-room, where 
some massive silver salvers generally stood on the side- 
board, and might have been left out, as sometimes 
happened, they heard a sound above them, a creaking on 
the stairs, and through the crack of the door they saw an 
advancing light. Instantly both men’s hands sought their 
breast pockets. One man drew a revolver, the other a 
heavy life-preserver. It was too late to retreat ; the only 
thing was to wait. Nearer came the heavy, creaking 
footsteps ; broader grew the ray of light, and then the 
door opened, and a big, burly gentleman, with a cigar in 
his mouth, and a candle in his hand, strolled carelessly 
into the room. 

“I must have dropped the blessed thing here,” he 
muttered to himself, peering about the room. As he had 
come in he had pushed the dining-room door open. It 
swung slowly back on its hinges, and screened from view 
the two burglars, who, silent and motionless, crouched 
against the wall, ready to spring on the intruder at the 
first cry of alarm. 

The proprietor of the mansion — for it was he — went 
straight to the mantleshelf and felt up and down that, 
then he looked on the table. “ Confound it,” he growled; 
“this comes of flashing thousand pound notes about, just 
to astonish that booby of a parson, who said he’d never 
seen one in his life. I know I had ten in my pocket — 
there are only nine now : so I must have dropped one.” 

Mr. Smith, J. P., had been smoking and reading up in 


12 


DRAMAS OF LIFE . 


his bedroom till a late hour, and prior to going to bed 
turned his pockets out on the table, and found that the 
bundle of thousand pound notes, which he had been 
“flashing/' as he vividly expressed it, was one short. 
He supposed he must have dropped it in the dining-room, 
hence his small-hour expedition to the lower regions. 

“It’s not here," he said, “perhaps I’ve counted the 
notes wrong." He pulled them out of his trouser’s pocket, 
into which he had thrust them in his bedroom, and 
counted them again, “one — two — three — four — no, four 
— five — " two of the notes were stuck together, “six — 
seven — eight — nine — ten. Ten thousand pounds. Hang 
it, they are right after all.’’ 

Ten thousand pounds in one man’s hand, and that man 
alone in the room with two armed burglars ! The same 
thought flashed simultaneously through the brain of Mr. 
Hicks and Mr. Gorman. 

The wealthy J. P., the man whose riches were said to 
be fabulous, the man whose vast fortune accumulated by 
speculations in Australia, turned to leave the dining-room 
candle in hand. Whiff! What was that? A current of 
air, a sudden draught. His candle had gone out ! 

Only half the oath he meant to utter left the J. P.’s lips. 
In a moment a pair of coarse, huge hands had him by the 
throat, choking the breath out of him, while another 
pair of hands were thrust into his pockets and clutched 
the bundle of notes. 

For a second the iron grip was relaxed. Perhaps the 
gripper thought he was gripping too hard, and he didn’t 
want to murder his victim — he only wanted to silence 
and rob him. But the relaxation was a mistake, for in 
that second the burglar found himself seized by two 
powerful arms, a leg was dexterously twisted round his, 
and he was hurled to the ground, while a fierce voice 
poured out a torrent of oaths in the broadest Sheffield 
dialect. 


DRAMAS OR LIFE. 


13 


4 ‘By God/’ exclaimed Bill Hicks, as he struggled to his 
feet, while his companion, recovering from his astonish- 
ment, clapped his hand across the J. P.’s mouth, “there’s 
only one man I ever knew as could wrestle like that and 
throw me, and if it ain’t him, it’s his (strong word) 
ghost. ” 

Instantly the burglar, forgetting his caution in his ex- 
citement, opened his dark lantern, and flashed it full on 
the man who was struggling violently with Jack Gorman, 
gripping his wrists in a vice so that he could not raise a 
hand to use his bludgeon. As the light fell on the face 
of the owner of Colston Hall, Bill Hicks cried, “I thought 
so. Tom Smith, o’ Sheffield, by all that’s wonderful ! ” 

In a moment the face of the Australian millionaire, 
which had been crimson with rage and suffocation, turned 
a deadly white. He cast a fierce, penetrating look at 
the burglar, and then he shivered from head to foot. 

“Let him be, Jack,” said Bill Hicks, quietly. “He 
won’t make a row now. We’re old pals, ain’t we, Tom?” 

Still the millionaire never moved his lips. He stood 
like a man stupefied ; like a man at whose feet a thunder- 
bolt had fallen. 

“Come on, Jack,” exclaimed Mr. Hicks to his aston- 
ished companion, who stood open-mouthed, wondering 
if he was awake or sleeping off the effects of a big drink- 
ing bout, and passing through one of the accompanying 
nightmares; “come on, Jack ; my old pal, Tom Smith, 
won’t round on us, will you, Tom? Lor’, it’s like old 
times seeing you again, Tom, and it brings back old 
times , too — lots o’ things as I’d forgotten, a’most. We’ll 
only borrow them flimsies, Tom, and pay you back one 
day, unless you think you’d like to give ’em us for the 
sake o’ old times. Don’t trouble to see us to the front 
door ; we’ll go out the way we come, and perhaps you’ll 
shut the shutters arter us, and if they tell you to-morrow 
as there’s a window with a pane broke, you may as well 


14 


DRAMAS OF LIFE . 


say you did it yourself, accidental. It’ll save some 
stupid fool goin’ and stuffing the police up as burglars 
has been givin’ you a look in. Good-night, Tom. What, 
you won’t shake hands, won’t you ? Lor’! Fancy you 
havin’ a lot of dirty pride about you. But there it’s allers 
the way with coves as gets up in the world. Me and 
Jack won’t be proud, though we’ve made ten thousand 
pounds atween us by our night’s work. Come on, Jack. 
Good evenin’, Tom. I aint got a card with me, but I’ll 
drop you a line to-morrow, saying where you can see me 
again if you’d like to have a chat over old times, arter all. 
Good-night.” 

Messrs. Hicks and Gorman walked quietly out, and 
closed the door after them, leaving the millionaire alone 
in the darkness. 

As the door closed he gave a smothered cry, and then 
fell on his knees, and buried his head in his hands. 

“ My God ! my God ! ” he cried. “ My sin has found 
me out at last ! ” 

• * * * * # * * 

Three days later Thomas Smith, Esq., J. P., of Colston 
Hall, was making his way on foot across Westminster 
Bridge. Arrived on the other side, he inquired of a 
policeman for a certain street, which he had written down 
on a piece of paper. Did the policeman know it? The 
policeman thought he did, rather. It was about the worst 
street in London. “You’d better look out for your watch 
and chain, sir, if you are going down there. Why, it’s 
as full o’ thieves as a egg is o’ meat. It’s all alleys and 
houses as you go in at one end and out o’ the other, and 
I’ve heard as under some o’ the houses is cellars as lead 
to the river. Many a poor devil has been lured down 
there of a night, sir, and never been heard of again, only 
a body found in the river, perhaps miles away, and sup- 
posed to have fallen in or drowned himself. Mind what 
you’re about if you’re going there, sir.” 


DRAMAS OF LIFE . 


15 

“I can take care of myself, ” answered the millionaire ; 
“tell me how to get to it.” 

The policeman directed him, and thanking the man he 
walked away. 

The policeman looked after him. “What’s his lay, I 
wonder? Well, I’ve told him what to expect. Suppose 
he knows his own business, and he looks as if he could 
take care of himself. He’s big enough.” 

Mr. Thomas Smith reached the street in question, and 
he soon found the number of the house he was in search 
of. There was no fear of any of the inhabitants recog- 
nizing him, though they stared at him with a natural 
curiosity as to strangers begotten of suspicion. 

He was admitted to the house directly he mentioned 
the name of Mr. Hicks, and told curtly “ fust floor.” 

Up to the first floor he went, and found Mr. Hicks waiting 
for him on the landing — if the dirty rotten bit of flooring 
could be dignified with the name. It was a very shaky 
landing at the best — for the rails were broken away, hav- 
ing been used as firewood by the tenants, and there was 
a hole, where an entire plank had given way, quite large 
enough for a leg to go through. 

“I don’t live here, Tom,” explained Mr. Hicks apolo- 
getically, “ but I use the place for business, and I thought 
it would be better than you coming to my ’ouse. My old 
woman ’ud like to be introduced to you, but that’ll do 
when we’ve moved into our new villa, as we’re going to 
take as soon as you’ve made it all square and safe for me 
to change the flimsies at the Bank. I don’t want to pay 
the usual discount to the trade for ’em, you know — as 
there ain’t a-going to be no stopping and no advertising 
— is there, Tom ? ” 

“ That depends, ” replied the J. P. “Now, what is it 
you’ve got to say ? Out with it, because I don’t care 
particularly about the atmosphere of this place, and I’ve 
no time to waste.” 


MAMAS OF LIFE. 


46 

« Right you are. Business only meant, as they say in 
the boxing challenges. I don’t want much. I’ve got ten 
thou — half of that’s J^fck Gorman’s. Lucky beast, Jack — 
but fair’s fair. We was halves in the swag that night, and 
I won’t go back on a bargain.” 

“What do you want?” 

“Well, Tom, I ain’t hardly had time to think. First, 
you won’t try to stop them flimsies ? ” 

“No ” 

“That’s all right. It would do you no good if you did, 
and it wouldn’t be good for me — and the blarmed Jew 
fellows would get all the profit. ” 

“I tell you I won’t stop them. Is that all you w T ant ? ” 

“No. Five thou’s a good bit, but a gent as I’ve con- 
sulted — a gent in the city, who does my legal business — 
tells me as it’s only two hundred a year — if you don’t spend 
it, but lends it to the government or the railways. Now, 
I’m getting tired of my line of business, and I’d like to 
settle down respectable, and do nothing for the rest o’ my 
life except take the old woman out now and then of a 
Sunday, and keep a pony and trap. Will you make the 
two hundred pounds £500?” 

“You mean will I make you an allowance of three 
hundred pounds a year? ” 

“That’s about what I mean, I expect ” 

“And what are you going to do in return ?” 

“Hold my tongue, Tom.” 

The millionaire hesitated a moment. He was thinking 
out the situation — weighing the pros and cons, in the 
business-like way of a man who had made millions by 
successful speculation — by knowing when to sa yyes and 
when to say no. 

Mr. Hicks watched his face eagerly. “You ought not 
to take long to think about it, Tom,” he said. “I didn’t 
when I first heard your name that night, and saw your 
face, I didn’t take long to see what a stroke o’ luck I 


DRAMAS OF LIFE . 


17 


tumbled on. “What,” says I to myself, “This 'ere 
Smith, J. P., as lives in this grand 'All — as is so rich that 
everybody is a talking about him, is nobody else but my 
old pal Tom Smith, as once we were lads together, and 
many a spree we had, too. Tom as had the row with 
Jim Oldroyd, the keeper’s son, about the pretty little girl 
Polly Thwaites, and one night, when he’d had a drop to 
drink, and was mad with jealousy, met Jim, and fought 
him — fought him fair, I dare say, if there’d been anybody 
to see it, only there wasn’t — so it was jolly awkward for 
Tom, as Jim never went home that night, but was found 
lying in the wood, and carried home, and never spoke a 
word. And it was me and my mate, Joe Heslop— you 
remember Joe — I dare say I could find him if I tried — as 
came and told you they’d found Jim dying ; and you said, 

‘ My God, I’ve killed him.’ And we told you to clear out 
quick, and get away to sea afore you got lagged and 
scragged. It was good advice, Tom ; it must have been, 
seeing as you went to furrin ’ parts, and here you are after 
twenty years, come back busting with money, and you’re 
a big swell, and nobody but me knows you’re the Tom 
Smith, o’ Sheffield, as killed Jim Oldroyd in a drunken 
passion, because he was sticking up to Polly Thwaites — 
and I was a good pal to you after that too, for I never 
breathed a word, and when it got put about that poor Jim 
had been killed by poachers as owed him and his father a 
grudge, I never said what I knowed, no more did Joe 
Heslop, as I might know where to find, for I heard of 
him not more than two years ago — and now you’re up in 
the world, and a regular Baron Rothschild, and all 
through me advising you to get out of the country. I 
don’t think you will be ungrateful and refuse me my bit, 
for hang it, I deserve it.” 

The rich man — the man whose name was respected for 
his wealth and his vast charities, for his business skill, 
and his high commercial position, bit his lip, and set his 

2 


DRAMAS OF LIFE . 


1 8 

teeth with nervous rage, as the disreputable companion of 
his vagabond, ill-spent youth coolly dragged up from the 
buried past the ghastly secret that had driven him from 
his native land. He had salved his conscience, as soon as 
he had developed one, again and again, with the thought 
that his fight with Jim Oldroyd was a fair one — that it had 
been blow for blow, until he caught Jim that terrific smash 
on the side of the head and felled him like a bullock, and 
then staggered away to sleep off his drunken fury, never 
thinking but that Jim would get up and crawl away home, 
crestfallen and humbled. But when he heard that Jim was 
dying he was terrified. There had been no witnesses to 
the fight. He himself had scarcely a mark or a bruise to 
show, for the fight had been all in his favor, and he had 
parried his less skilled antagonists blows, and beyond a 
slight cut on his cheek, had nothing to show in his own 
favor, and so he ran away. 

He had killed a man, and there was nothing to prove 
that he hadn’t killed him wilfully out of revenge and 
jealousy. He did not bear a good character in the neigh- 
borhood ; he was a rowdy and a roysterer, and his 
companions were as rowdy as himself. He had no 
relatives but an aunt, who disliked him and grumbled at 
him, and would be glad to get rid of him, and so he fled — 
fled from the justice which he believed would hand him 
over to the gallows. 

And in twenty years he returned to England a millionaire 
— forgotten in his native village — giving himself out to 
have passed his whole life in Australia ; asked no questions 
that his wealth did not answer, fully believing that no one 
would ever dream of coupling him with Tom Smith, the 
Sheffield lad. His aunt had been dead for years, his old 
companions would have forgotten him, and he was not 
likely to revisit his native village. 

Always when he thought of the past, he comforted 
himself with the idea that it was a fair fight, and an 


DRAMAS OF LIFE. 


19 


accident of the fight, that Oldroyd was fatally injured ; but 
now here was an old companion of his — a man who had 
become a professional burglar — a man who would find 
others to join him if necessary, in swearing that he killed 
Oldroyd, that he was a murderer who had run away to 
avoid arrest, a man who had murdered his rival, maddened 
by drink and jealousy. 

And if this story were told of him, and if he were 
arrested, and the scandal spread, and he could refute 
it ! If he found people to believe that his statement was 
true — and it was a fair fight — what then ? Would not all 
his career be brought up against him ? Would not he, the 
millionaire, the Justice of the Peace, the patron of the 
benevolent institutions, the princely subscriber to Christian 
missions, the feted and run-after Thomas Smith, Esq., 
stand confessed the former companion and associate of 
men who were now notorious criminals? And his wife, 
his sons and his daughters, what shame would not they 
have to endure if this wretched story were made public — 
if he were denounced by this scoundrel, or by some one 
instructed by him, to the police, and arrested. 

The Australian millionaire, the British Justice of the 
Peace, thought the whole matter out, and made up his 
mind. 

“ I accept your terms,” he said. ‘ ‘ You can take your 
notes to the bank. You’ll let your ‘lawyer' do it for 
you if you take my advice, and so long as you neither 
communicate with me or annoy me in any way, but keep 
your former knowledge of me absolutely to yourself, and 
prevent your companion from presuming on what he 
heard and witnessed at the Hall, I will pay to you, 
through my lawyers, the sum of Three Hundred Pounds 
a year. Send me the name of the lawyer who is going to 
take charge of your affairs, and mine shall communicate 
with him. Is that satisfactory ? ” 

“Quite,” replied Mr. Hicks. “Tom, you're a brick, 


20 


DRAMAS OF LIFE . 


and you can trust me to keep my mouth shut. I retire 
from business and become a respectable gent from this 
day.” 

Mr. Hicks held out his hand, Mr. Smith didn’t notice it, 
said “Good-morning,” and made his way out of the street 
and across Westminster Bridge as rapidly as he could. 

That evening Mr. Gorman came to Mr. Hicks’ residence 
to supper, and Mr. Gorman, quite satisfied that the “flim- / 
sies” could be dealt with at their full value over the 
counter of the Bank of England, agreed to leave the mat- 
ter entirely in Mr. Hicks’ hand to arrange, and thought 
that after all he might as well be respectable, too, and 
immediately began to look about for a little cottage in 
the country, where he might devote himself to horticul- 
ture generally, and rose-growing in particular, for Mr. 
Gorman had one weakness in his burglarious character, 
and that weakness was flowers. He had even been 
known to walk on a gravel path while trying to break 
into a house, rather than trample down a bed and injure 
the flowers. Such a delicate trait in the character of a 
man of Mr. Gorman’s profession is worth making a note 
of when found. 

Mr. Hicks congratulated himself on the fact that since 
his last sentence had expired^only very recently, it must 
be confessed — he had not succeeded in bringing off a job. 
This, which at one time he had resented as bad luck, he 
now confessed was quite the reverse, for there was noth- 
ing which the police could bring up against him, which 
would warrant them in depriving him temporarily of 
the enjoyment of the privileges of a gentleman of 
independent means, should they recognize in William 
Hicks, Esq., of Myrtle Villa, Sydenham, the once noto- 
rious crib cracker and ex-convict, known at Scotland Yard 
and among his intimates as “Bill the Gouger,” on 
account of a little trick he once played with the visual 
organ of a too presumptuous policeman. 


DRAMAS OF LIFE. 


21 


It should be recorded that Mr. Hicks fully carried out 
his intention of turning “respectable,” and to-day he is a 
highly respected member of the Vigilance Committee of 
his district — a committee which has been formed for the 
suppression of everything that is wicked, and for the 
raising of the moral tone of the Vigilance Committees 
neighbors. There is a rumor that Mr. Hicks stands a 
very fair chance of becoming churchwarden, but some of 
his supporters are not quite certain that the feathers which 
Mrs. Hicks wears in her hat when they drive to church 
on Sundays in the pony trap (the pony is a fast trotter) 
would be quite serious enough for a churchwarden’s wife. 

Thomas Smith, Esq., J. P., of Colston Hall, has quite 
recovered from the shock he experienced when a former 
acquaintance of his called upon him at such an unusual 
hour of the morning, and borrowed ten thousand pounds. 

He is a great patron of nearly everything that wants 
money, and he is universally respected. He travels 
about a good deal, but he has never yet visited the neigh- 
borhood of Sheffield. From the hour he left his native 
village, which is about seven miles from that grimy cen- 
tre of industry, he has never mentioned the fact that he 
knows that such a place exists. He has blotted it out of 
his memory. Most rich men like to know something of 
their old homes, and their old associations. Mr. Smith 
would as soon think of drawing his own teeth as a dis- 
traction, as of making inquiries about the home of his 
boyhood. It is always best to let sleeping dogs lie. If 
you don’t they are apt to become very wide awake, and 
instead of lying to tell the truth. There are some truths 
which even a benevolent millionaire would rather the 
public were not favored with. 


THE MYSTERIOUS CROSSING 
SWEEPER. 


She was an odd-looking little old woman, and she was 
busily engaged in sweeping the crossing at the top of my 
street when I first saw her. 

My attention was attracted to her by the fact of her 
being where she was. I had lived in Gower Street for 
three years, I had crossed at that particular crossing almost 
every day during my residence in that gloomy thorough- 
fare, and I had naturally come to know the regular cross- 
ing sweeper. The regular crossing sweeper was an old 
man ; why had he suddenly resigned his position to the old 
woman ? 

I had read some wonderful stories about crossing 
sweepers, who make fortunes and retire from business, 
about crossing sweepers who sell “the good will” of their 
crossing for a good round sum, and about crossing 
sweepers who leave their crossing to their relatives, 
just as other citizens leave their estates to theirs. Hav- 
ing these things in my mind, and being addicted to 
“ making notes/ I at once gave vent to my natural curiosity 
and asked the new crossing sweeper a few questions. 

“Where’s old Tom ?” I said, “ how is it he’s not here?” 

The old lady looked up at me — as I thought — suspi- 
ciously. 

“ We’ve changed crossings, ” she said, quickly, and 
went on with her sweeping. 

Now I am not a great judge of crossing sweeping, but I 
have watched the members of the profession at work long 
enough to know how they generally go about it, and I in- 
stantly came to the conclusion that the old lady was not a 
very old hand at the business. 


DRAMAS OF LIFE. 


23 

She didn’t go about the work in the regular way, and 
although while I stood watching her several people crossed 
the road, she didn’t drop a curtsey or sweep imaginary 
mud aside in the regular professional manner. 

Perhaps she was a little confused by the way in which 
I stared at her, and that accounted for her absent-minded- 
ness, for presently when a young lady came across the 
road the old woman followed her up closely and whined 
out, “ Spare a copper for the poor old crossing sweeper, 
lady. Please spare a copper.” “ I haven’t one,” said the 
young lady, and passed on. “ How do you find business 
here ? ” I said, determined to get into conversation with 
the old lady who had thoroughly piqued my curiosity. 

4 4 Better than at your old crossing, or not so good? ” 

“ I can’t say yet. I ain’t been here long enough.” 

With that the old lady walked across to the other side 
of the road, and began sweeping as far away as possible. 

** She isn’t inclined to be friendly,” I thought to myself. 
“ Perhaps she thinks I’m a mendicity man, or something 
of that sort. ” 

I had an important appointment in Oxford Street, and 
so I was unable on this occasion to devote any more time 
to the study of the new crossing sweeper. After I had 
walked some little distance along Bedford Square I turned 
round, and I saw that the old lady was looking after me. 
Directly she saw that I was watching her she resumed 
her work. 

I was out of doors for the remainder of the day, and it 
was ten o’clock in the evening before I turned my steps 
homewards. In passing through Dyott Street, a narrow 
street in Bloomsbury, in which there still remain a few of 
the old common lodging-houses, I saw an old man stag- 
gering out of a public-house, evidently slightly the worse 
for liquor. 

As I came up to him I recognized him at once. It was 
old Tom, our regular crossing sweeper. 


24 


DRAMAS OF LIFE, 


“ Why, Tom,” I said, “ what’s the matter with you ? ” 

He pulled himself together directly, and made a des- 
perate effort to appear sober in the presence of a regular 
patron. 

“Beg your pardon, sir,” he mumbled. “Hope you 
won’t think I’m often like this, but — er — I’ve had a bit of 
luck and I’ve took more than’s good for me.” 

“A bit of luck, eh ? Sold your crossing to the old lady, 
eh?” 

“Oh, you noticed her, did you? No, I ain’t sold it to 
her. I’ve only sold her the broom ; but I’ve let her have 
the crossing for a week, and she’s guv’ me two suverins 
for it — two whole suverins. Rum go, ain’t it ? ” 

“Very rum ! So the old lady’s hired the crossing for a 
week, eh? Did you know her at her other crossing?” 

“Lor’ bless you, sir, I never see her in my life afore. 
She come to my place where I live, and she says : 
‘ You’re the man as sweeps at the top of Keppel Street, 
Gower Street, ain’t you ? ’ 

“‘Yes, mum,” I sez, ‘I am ! ’ Then she outs with 
what she wants. She’d give me half-a-crown for my 
broom and two suverins if I’d let her have that crossin’ 
for a week, and I took it. It’s a rum go, ain’t it, cus it 
ain’t wuth it, and, between you and me, sir, I don’t believe 
the old gal ever swept a crossin’ afore in her life.” 

“ It is a rum go, Tom, but I hope you won’t spend all 
the money in the public-houses, or you’ll have the worst 
of the bargain.” 

With which piece of good advice I left him and went 
home. 

The next day the old lady was at her crossing again. 
She was there all the week. When I passed I had a good 
look at her, and in order to get a better chance I always 
stopped and felt in my pocket for a copper for some little 
time, before I drew it out and gave it her. She always 
thanked me civilly enough, but I felt quite sure she 


DRAMAS OF LIFE . 


25 

objected to my scrutiny. At the end of the week tire old 
lady disappeared, and old Tom was back in his accus- 
tomed place. 

From him I could gather nothing, except that the old 
lady had returned him his broom, and informed him that 
she thought she should go back to her own crossing 
again, “as it paid better.” 

I made an entry, “The Mysterious Crossing Sweeper,” 
in. the little note book which I always carry to jot down 
odd ideas and notions in, and then the matter passed out 
of my mind, until it was brought back again in a very 
curious way. 

A few doors from me in Gower Street there lived a lady 
who, in defiance of the clauses of her lease, took in 
lodgers. It is a legend in Gower Street that the houses 
must not be let out in apartments. In order to keep up 
the respectability of the thoroughfare it is, or was, under- 
stood that the lease contained a stringent clause against 
sticking up bills in the windows or inserting advertise- 
ments in newspapers to the effect that lodgings are to let. 

The clause, if it exists, is certainly set at defiance, for 
lodgings are as plentiful in Gower Street as blackberries 
in September. 

Mrs. Smith, the lady who let the lodgings openly, and 
with cards and with advertisements announced the fact, 
lived a few doors below me, and I had made her acquaint- 
ance through a professional friend of mine who lodged in 
her house, a young fellow playing at one of the London 
theatres, by name Richard Lampson, commonly called 
“Dick.” 

About a week after the old lady crossing-sweeper had 
resigned her broom in Gower Street I was passing Mrs. 
Smith’s house, when Lampson, who had the dining-room 
floor, tapped at the window and beckoned me to come in. 

“There’s’been a nice upset here last night,” he said. 
“ You know that pretty little woman I told you about, 
Mrs. Vere, who had the floor above me?” 


26 


DRAMAS OF LIFE . 


“Yes ; I saw her once at the window. ” 

“ Well, last night there was quite a scene here. An old 
gentleman and an old lady drove up in a cab and asked 
to see Mrs. Vere. The landlady said she would see if 
Mrs. Vere was in, but the lady and gentleman followed 
her, and were in the room right on her heels. Directly 
Mrs. Vere caught sight of the old gentleman she gave a 
shriek, and then (the landlady told me all about it) there 
was a nice to do. The old gentleman, it seems, was Mrs. 
Vere’s papa. The old lady was her mamipa, and it was 
quite a dramatic scene, the end of it being that papa and 
mamma drove off with their daughter, who seemed very 
much distressed, and was crying bitterly. ” 

“But I thought you told me that Mrs. Vere was married, 
and that her husband lived here with her,” I interrupted. 

“Just so; and that is the strangest part of the affair. 
When she was leaving, the landlady stood at the front 
door. As the cab had driven away she looked after it 
down the street, and she declares that she saw Mr. Vere, 
the husband, standing in the doorway of the opposite 
house, where he had evidently been watching the pro- 
ceedings. Instead of coming over he walked away in 
the opposite direction, and he hasn’t been here since.” 

“ H’m. I suppose the truth is they were not married.” 

“No,” replied Dick, “I don’t think that’s the solution 
of the mystery, for my landlady tells me that the old 
gentleman gave her a message. ‘ If my daughter’s hus- 
band wants to know where she is/ he said, ‘ refer him to 
me.’ With that he gave her his card, from which she 
learnt that he was Sir George Elliston, of Farnham Hall, 
Henley-on-Thames. ” 

“Sir George Elliston — why that must be the banker. 
He’s a very wealthy man.” 

“'Yes, and its hardly likely that his daughter would 
occupy a drawing-room floor in Gower Street with a man 
who wasn’t her husband.” 


DRAMAS OF LIFE- 


2 7 

“Hardly. It must have been a runaway match, and 
the man must be somebody the family strongly disap- 
prove of. It must have been a mesalliance. ” 

“ I should think so, but after all if the young lady is 
Vere s wife, the father cannot take her away from him. 
At any rate, it would te a curious thing for him to stand 
opposite the house and see it done without interfering — 
a very curious thing — there must be something more in 
it than we can guess at.” 

While we were talking the landlady came into Dick’s 
room. 

“Oh, I beg your pardon, Mr. Lampson,” she said, “I 
didn’t know you had any one with you.” 

“ It’s all right, Mrs. Smith, we were only talking about 
Mrs. Vere. Have you found out anything fresh?” 

“No, but I have just had a telegram from Sir George 
saying that Mrs. Vere’s boxes will be called for to-day, 
and that I am to give them up. It’s very odd, isn’t it, 
we’ve packed everything, and I don’t see that I can keep 
them, for the rent’s paid.” 

“But what about the husband’s property,” I asked, 
“You can’t give that up unless he comes for it himself, 
and I am not sure you are justified in giving anything up 
without his sanction.” 

“He hasn’t left any property,” replied the landlady, 
“ and that’s the oddest thing about the whole affair. He 
took his portmanteau and his things away yesterday 
morning, saying he was going away for a week — and yet 
I'll swear he was standing opposite this house last night. 

I shall give the young lady’s things up to Sir George. I 
don’t want to have any bother or legal proceedings, and 
I’m quite sure the husband won’t interfere. If he’d been 
going to he’d have done it when his wife was taken away — - 
he wouldn’t have waited till her boxes went.” 

At that moment a cab drove up to the door and a young 
man got out and knocked. The servant went to the door. 


28 


DRAMAS OF LIFE. 


and presently came in to say that Sir George Elliston had 
sent his servant for Mrs. Vere’s boxes and any property 
she’d left in the room. 

The boxes and all the things that Mrs. Smith could find 
were duly brought down and loaded on the cab. Then 
the young man got in and was driven off. 

1 was standing with Lampson at his window, watching 
the proceedings, when all of a sudden I gave an ex- 
clamation of surprise. 

“What’s the matter?” asked Lampson. 

“Do you see that old lady who’s just come up the 
street in a hansom cab ? ” 

“Well, what of her?” 

“ Oh, nothing ; only I’ll swear that she’s the same old 
lady who a week ago was sweeping the crossing at 
Keppel Street. I’ve stared at her too often not to know 
her again now.” 

“Goon with you — a crossing sweeper in a hansom 
cab.” 

“ You may laugh, but I’ll wager every shilling I’m 
worth in the world that I’m right.” 

At that moment the four-wheel cab with Mrs. Vere’s 
luggage on it turned the corner by Bedford Square, and 
round the same corner, close behind it, went the hansom 
cab in which sat the old lady crossing sweeper. 

What did it mean ? 

Two days afterwards I received a little further information 
from Dick about what he called “ The Vere mystery. ” 
On the same afternoon that Mrs. Vere’s luggage had been 
taken away, Sir George had called at the house himself. 

He was thunderstruck when he was told that he had 
authorised its removal. He had never sent any telegram, 
he had never instructed any one to call. 

“ It’s that scoundrel Vere,” he exclaimed; “ he was afraid 
to call himself, and he thought that perhaps after my 


DRAMAS OF LIFE. 


2 9 

daughter going away with me you, would hesitate to give 
her things up to him, and so he concocted this little plot. 
There must be something in the boxes that he wanted, or 
he wouldn’t have gone to the trouble. Well, let him have 
them, and I hope I shall never hear of the wretch again. ” 

Mrs. Smith ventured to make a fevv inquiries, and Sir 
George instantly, to use a vulgar expression, “ dried up/' 
His indignation had led him into saying more than he 
intended. “ My dear madam, " he said, “my daughter 
has married a man who was unable to support her ; he has 
deserted her — I have taken her home. Your rent is paid, 
That is all you want to know. Pray don’t gossip about 
the matter if you can help it. Good afternoon. " 

It must have been quite twelve months after the disap- 
pearance of Mrs. Vere from Gower Street, that one after- 
noon I was sitting outside the Cafe de la Paix in Paris when 
I caught sight of my old friend Inspector Tozer, formerly 

of Scotland Yard and now of Street, Strand, Private 

Detective. 

I called to him and he came across and we exchanged 
friendly greetings — I invited him to sit down and have a 
cigar. 

“ No thanks, old fellow, ” he replied “ I'm in a hurry.” 

“ Got a job on here? ” 

“ Yes — I am going up to the Bois — come with me. ” 

“ Certainly. ” 

We hailed a fiacre, and away we drove. 

“ What is it this time, Tozer? ” I asked, for I am always 
keenly alive to the romance of a private inquiry. 

“ Can't tell you now, my boy. Ask me in six months' 
time. ” 

I accepted the hint and talked about something else. 
We drove through the Arc de Triomphe, and although my 
companion did not appear to be taking any interest in the 
scene I was quite sure he was looking for someone among 


DRAMAS OF LIFE. 


30 

the occupiers of the « carriages that drove past us. Sud- 
denly I gripped the defective’s arm. 

“ What’s the matter? ” he exclaimed. 

“ Look yonder, ” I cried ; “ there — at that old lady in 
the landau. ” 

“ I don’t think much of the old lady, but the horses are 
magnificent — they are superb. ” 

That old woman was a crossing sweeper when I first 
saw her, ” I exclaimed. 

The detective looked at me very curiously for a moment. 
I suppose he thought I was a little touched. 

“ Nonsense, ” he replied. “That old lady is Mrs. Cyrus 
Cox, of Chicago, widow of a cattle king, and worth Heaven 
knows how many million dollars. She lives in Paris now. ’ 

“ And the handsome young man sitting in the carriage 
by her side — is he her son, then ?” 

“No, my dear fellow — he is her future husband.” I 
was dumfounded. I could have sworn the old lady was 
my crossing sweeper, but the landau, the magnificence, 
the millions — I must have been mistaken — yet I never 
saw such a resemblance in my life. 

“ It’s a curious story, that old lady’s, ” continued the 
detective. “ She’s marrying that young fellow through an 
advertisement. ” 

“ Indeed.” 

“ Yes. It seems the old girl, tired of widowhood, went 
to a marriage agency in Paris and was advertised. You 
know the sort of thing : ‘ A widow of fortune is anxious 
to meet with a suitable partner ; must be dark, handsome ; 
money no object if of gentlemanly appearance and 
manner.’ ” 

“And this young fellow answered the advertisement?” 

“I suppose so. At any rate, that’s what Paris gossip 
says. And I know they’re to be married next week at 
the English Church.” 

“ What’s his name ? ” 


DRAMAS OF LIFE . 


31 


‘‘Vaughan — or something of the sort — I should think 
he was a penniless adventurer, alid I wish the old girl joy 
of him.” 

“Cocher ! Hotel Continental ! v 

The coachman turned the horse’s head towards Paris, 
and we drove back again. It struck' me after he had set 
me down at the Grand that the detective’s business in the 
Bois seemed to be finished as soon as he had seen Mrs. 
Cyrus Cox and her affianced husband. 

Left to myself and to my own thoughts my mind re- 
verted to the old lady crossing sweeper of Gower Street. 
Mrs. Cox had brought her back most vividly to my mind. 
Of course, Mrs. Cyrus Cox, of Chicago, couldn’t possibly 
have been a crossing sweeper, but it was a most extraor- 
dinary resemblance. 

I stayed in Paris a fortnight, and only saw Inspector 
Tozer once more. At the end of the fortnight, business 
called me back to London. I left by the morning train, 
and when I reached Calais they were selling the London 
papers of that day. I bought a Daily Telegraph , and 
after reading the leaders I turned to an inside page. 

There a name at once attracted my attention. It was 
that of Mrs. Cyrus Cox. The paragraph which I read was 
to the effect that a Mrs. Cyrus Cox, supposed to be the 
widow of a wealthy American, had been the victim of a 
fashionable adventurer who had made her acquaintance 
through an advertisement. The widow had advertised 
for a husband, and had selected from the written offers 
received an English gentleman, who called himself Harry 
Vaughan. The courtship was short ; the ceremony took 
place at the English Church, and the happy couple started 
to spend their honeymoon in England by the bride’s 
request. They were to go to Dover and then to proceed 
to Scotland. On the arrival at Dover the bride com- 
plained of being upset by the passage, and did not want 
to continue her journey for a day or two. 


DRAMAS OF LIFE. 


32 

On the second day of their stay, a gentleman arrived at 
the hotel. He announced himself as a police officer and 
proceeded at once to arrest Mr. Vaughan as one Henry 
Vere on a charge of bigamy. In spite of his protest the 
gentleman was told to consider himself in custody, and 
was taken up to London without being allowed to explain 
his situation to his bride. It is understood that a former 
marriage with a young lady, the daughter of an eminent 
and wealthy English banker, can be proved. 

“Vere,” I exclaimed as I dropped the paper. “Vere,” 
why that’s the name of the man who married Mr. George 
Elliston’s daughter. They lived in Gower Street, and it 
was there I saw the crossing sweeper in a hansom cab 
following Mrs. Vere’s luggage. I’ll take my oath now 
that Mrs. Cyrus Cox was the crossing sweeper.” 

When the case came on I was away in the provinces, 
but I read the account. The first wife was present — she 
was a Miss Elliston — her marriage was proved. The 
second wife gave her name as Janet Cox, and described 
herself as a widow. She related the story of her adver- 
tisement and of the marriage, and she stated that her hus- 
band had signed all the papers, and gone through the cere- 
mony in the name of Henry Vere, explaining to her that 
Vere was his real name, but that for family reasons he 
called himself Vaughan. 

The prisoner made no defence — there was none to make 
— and was sentenced to a term of imprisonment. 

Sometime afterwards the name of Vere cropped up again 
in the Divorce Court — Mrs. Vere sued for a divorce from 
her husband, Henry Vere, on the ground of bigamy, and 
the cfivorce was eventually granted. 

But still the mystery of the crossing sweeper who be- 
came an American millionairess, or the American mil- 
lionairess who became a crossing sweeper remained unex- 
plained. I talked the whole affair over with Dick Lamp- 
son, and we summoned Mrs. Smith to our counsel, but we 


DRAMAS OF LIFE . 


33 

however could make nothing of it. We all agreed that it 
was very curious that Mrs. Vere No. i, or her friends, 
should have had such remarkably early information of 
the second marriage, as to get the bridegroom arrested 
soon after the commencement of his bigamous career. 

We wondered what had become of Mrs. Cyrus Cox — 
had she returned to Paris to advertise again, or had she 
taken warning from the fate which had befallen her, and 
settled down in widowed blessedness for the remainder of 
her life — or (the suggestion was Dick’s) had she developed 
her old eccentricity and bought another broom and hired 
another crossing. 

The whole thing might have remained a mystery to us 
for ever, had I not one day wanted, for professional pur- 
poses, to visit the Black Museum at Scotland Yard. Think- 
ing how I could best manage to get an introduction to 
the officer in charge, which would secure me something 
more than the cursory glance to -which the general public 
are treated, I remembered my old friend Tozer. I knew 
he would give me a letter which would secure me all I 
wanted, and so I went down to the office and sent up my 
card. I was admitted at once into his sanctum and 
heartily welcomed. I explained my business, and Tozer 
gave me the letter. Then he began to talk about business, 
and he told me of some highly romantic cases in which he 
had lately been engaged. One in particular interested 
me very much. He had prevented a marriage between 
a young nobleman and a young lady in the chorus of a 
burlesque theatre by means of a young lady detective on 
his staff. This young lady had actually secured an en- 
gagement at the theatre, and dressed every night in the 
same room with the ambitious damsel, and became her 
bosom friend and the repository of all her secrets, and had 
acquired information which, communicated to the friends 
of the young nobleman, had enabled them to nip the 
mesalliance in the bud. 


3 


34 


DRAMAS OF LIFE. 


“Very clever,” I said, “but it seems rather mean, 
doesn’t it, to do that sort of thing ? ” 

“All’s fair in love and the detective business,” he re- 
plied. “I call it jolly clever. Would you like to see 
Miss Jones, the girl who did it. You’d never take her 
for a female detective.” 

“ I should very much like to see her,” I replied. 

The great Tozer struck a bell, and a clerk answered it. 
“ Send Miss Jones to me.” 

Miss Jones, a remarkably elegant young woman of 
about five-and-twenty entered, and I confess I should 
never have suspected her calling. We had a little con- 
versation, in which she told us of some remarkable ad- 
ventures she had had, and then being called away on 
business she left us. 

“I have another lady here I should like you to see,” 
said Tozer, as I rose to go. “ She’s the cleverest woman 
in England, bar none, and worth her weight in gold. 
You wouldn’t believe what that woman’s done. No man 
could have done it half as cleverly.” 

With that he rose, went into an inner office, and re- 
turned with a lady. 

He introduced her. 

“This is Mrs ” 

He didn’t get any farther. 

“The crossing sweeper ! ” I exclaimed. 

Yes. There standing before me in Tozer’s office was a 
little old lady whom I at once recognized as the crossing 
sweeper of Gower Street, and as Mrs. Cyrus Cox, of the 
Bois de Boulogne. 

The little old lady had recognized me too. 

“You didn’t believe I was a crossing sweeper,” she 
said. “Ah, you were a terrible nuisance. I was afraid 
you might know somebody where the Veres were lodg- 
ing and spoil all my plans.” 

“You were watching the Veres, then ? ” 


DRAMAS OF LIFE. 


35 


“ Yes/’ replied Tozer. “Mrs. Cox, that’s her correct 
name without the Cyrus, you know, was put on by me to 
find Miss Elliston, and to find out who the man was with 
whom she had eloped.” 

“ She suspected Vere, who was an accomplished scoun- 
drel, and had been mixed up in a good many queer trans- 
actions, and as she knew he would spot her if she walked 
about the street, and watched in the usual way, and so 
she hit on the idea of sweeping the crossing. That 
enabled her to watch the house all day, and as soon as 
she had seen Miss Elliston at the window and Vere go 
into the house she was satisfied, and reported to me, and 
I communicated with Mr. Elliston, who had put the case 
in my hands.” 

“She watched the house the day after he took his 
daughter away, and when her luggage went she guessed 
what was up, and followed it to Vere’s lodgings, where 
it was taken. He wanted the jewellery and the letters, 
which were in the boxes, 1 expect. At anyrate that in- 
duced her to watch Vere until he left for Paris, and then 
we telegraphed to have the train met by one of our men 
there, who kept him in view till we wanted him.” 

“ And the marriage ? ” 

“Well, that was a desperate scheme, but it was all 
Mrs. Cox’s idea. Wonderful woman, you are, Cox, to be 
sure. ” 

Mrs. Cox accepted the compliment with a little toss of 
her head. 

“It wasn’t very wonderful,” she replied, “seeing that 
Mr. Elliston said he would give a thousand pounds to get 
his daughter freed from the man she was tied to for life, 
and who was a bad lot, as the girl herself discovered and 
admitted as soon as she came to her senses. He had 
simply made love to her, and persuaded her to elope and 
marry him in order to get money and blackmail the 
family. Fortunately, we gave Mr. Elliston some infor- 


DRAMAS OF LIFE. 


3S 

mation about him, which stopped that, and made my 
gentleman sing small. When I found that he was settled 
in Paris, I ascertained that he was trying the same game 
on with the widow of a shopkeeper. Whether he would 
have married her I don't know, but I determined that he 
should marry me. I hired a carriage and pair, lived in 
grand style in a villa at Neuilly, just outside Paris, and 
gave out that I was a rich widow, and looking out for a 
husband. I took care that he should hear of me, and 
read the advertisement. The Marriage Bureau lady man- 
aged that, and presently, to my great delight, I found the 
fish was hooked." 

“You know the rest," broke in Inspector Tozer. “ The 
marriage was duly solemnized, and Mrs. Cox expressed 
her intention of settling a large sum of money on her 
husband. She persuaded him to come for the honey- 
moon to England, and at once wired me, and I communi- 
cated with the police, with the result which you know. 
Mrs. Cox got rid of her illegal husband, and Miss Elliston 
of her legal one. Mr. Elliston paid all the expenses, and 
has behaved very handsomely to Mrs. Cox and myself 
for severing his daughter from a tie which would have 
marred her whole life. Clever, wasn’t it?" 

“Very clever," I said, “but it was a plot. It was 
collusion." 

“Oh, bosh!" exclaimed Tozer, “nobody, not even 
Vere, knew anything about that, and it wasn’t our busi- 
ness to enlighten him. Vere committed bigamy, and if 
a man or woman commits bigamy that entitles the wife 
or husband to a divorce, and that was all we wanted. 
Cox did it, and I don’t care where the other comes from 
she’s the cleverest female detective in London.” 

I readily admitted that, and congratulated Mrs. Cox on 
her success, and then I bade Tozer good-day, and went 
back to tell Dick Lampson that I had fathomed the mys- 
tery of the old lady crossing sweeper at last. 


UNCLE FROM AMERICA. 


The Whympennys were rather a scattered family. Old 
Mr. Whympenny lived in the little cottage in Bedford- 
shire, to which Tom Whympenny had brought his wife 
nearly forty years ago ; but the wife had been lying in 
the village churchyard for nearly fifteen years, and old 
Tom, who was young Tom then, had never found it in 
his heart to put another woman in her place. 

The young Whympennys had grown up under the 
parental roof until the cottage grew too crowded and the 
village seemed too small for them, and then one by one 
they had gone out into the world to seek their fortunes. 
Tom, the eldest son, came to London, and in due time 
settled down as the manager of a small fruit shop which 
was one of the branch establishments of a big East End 
fruiterer. Jack, the second son, went to sea, didn’t like 
it, came back again, married, and, having to do some- 
thing for a living, eventually became a policeman. The 
girls went out to service. Sarah, the eldest, was a house- 
maid until she married Sam Green, a waiter, then she re- 
tired into private life until her husband took to rheuma- 
tism and betting. The rheumatism and the betting 
between them stopped the waiting, and then Mrs. Green 
went out nursing ladies, and so kept a home together, in 
which Sam passed his time, groaning over his rheuma- 
tism and endeavoring to spot winners. 

The second daughter, Jane, went into the service of 
the local clergyman, and worked her way up to the 


DRAMAS OF LIFE . 


38 

position of housekeeper, when the clergyman's wife died. 
From being the clergyman’s housekeeper, she became 
housekeeper to a wealthy but invalid old gentleman in 
London, and being of a sober and serious turn of mind, 
she drifted on towards middle age without indulging in 
thoughts of matrimony. 

The third daughter, Mary, remained with her father 
until a good-looking young gardener, JoeTwemlow, who 
worked at “ the big house,” and whose father and mother 
lived in the next cottage to the Whympennys, fell over 
head and ears in love with her, and persuaded her to 
marry him, and go to London with him, where he had a 
good berth offered him in the suburbs, as head gardener 
and lodge-keeper. 

The fourth daughter, Kate, had married a year pre- 
viously, and settled down in the village, so that Mary had 
less scruple than she would have had in leaving her 
father, as Kate “lived handy,” and could run in and look 
after him now and then. 

In this way the Whympenny family broke up, and old 
Tom Whympenny was left in his cottage alone. He 
didn’t mind it very much at first when he could get out 
and about, and had his strength and the use of his limbs. 
He found plenty to do in his own little garden in his 
leisure, and he was employed at the church, and at the 
big school in the neighborhood. At the church he was 
pew-opener, at the school he did a variety of odd jobs, 
and between the church, the school and his garden, he 
managed to earn sufficient for his simple wants without 
troubling his sons and daughters. 

This was the position of affairs when an event hap- 
pened which was destined to have a tremendous effect 
upon the family history, and to play havoc with the re- 
lations existing between the various members. 

It was a tradition in the Twemlow family, the family 
which lived next door to the Whympennys, and whose 


DRAMAS OF LIFE . 


39 

son Joe had made Mary Whympenny a Mrs. Twemlow, 
that some day old Mrs. Twemlow’s brother. Eli Furlong, 
was coming back from America. Uncle Eli had been 
twenty years in America, there he had married, settled 
down and prospered, and when he wrote to his relations, 
which was about once a year, he always spoke vaguely 
of coming home some day to have a look at the old 
country. 

Uncle Eli was not very communicative about his 
private affairs, but he said enough in his letters to let his 
relatives know that he had done well at his trade and 
had made a tidy bit of money. 

There wasn’t much to gossip about in the little Bed- 
fordshire village, and so the Twemlows naturally talked 
occasionally of their rich uncle in America, and in the 
course of years, his wealth grew in the imagination of 
the villagers, until he was popularly supposed to be a 
millionaire of the most approved American type. 

Uncle Eli was kept pretty well informed of the 
marriages and deaths and movements which occurred in 
his family circle at home. He had gone out from this 
village a man of forty, and it was also on record that at 
one time, before he went to America, it was supposed 
that he was rather sweet on Jane Whympenny. 

, You must bear this in mind, to understand the flutter 
of excitement that was caused in the family, when one 
day old Mrs. Twemlow received a letter from her brother, 
stating that his wife was dead, and that he had been 
ordered to travel in order to keep himself from brooding 
over his loss, and so he was coming back to England at 
last to see his friends and relatives. 

Uncle Eli was coming home — was coming home a 
widower and childless ; was coming home with all his 
vast wealth to look up his friends and relatives ! It was 
great news. It was tremendous news. Mrs. Twemlow, 
of course, rushed in at once to old Mr. Whympenny and 


40 


DRAMAS OF LIFE . 


told him all about it : old Mr. Whympenny wrote off at 
once to his daughter Mary who had married Joe Twem- 
low — Mary Twemlow with her husband was now living 
in London — she as housekeeper and he as gardener to a 
Mr. Jones, a widower. Mary Twemlow immediately 
rushed upstairs to her master and asked for a day’s holiday, 
and tore off round London to inform her sisters and her 
brothers ; and from that moment nothing occupied their 
thoughts but the coming home of the American uncle. 

“He’s my uncle, you know, not yours,” said Joe 
Twemlow, when his wife told him that she had com- 
municated the news to her relatives. 

“ If he’s your uncle he’s mine too,” said Mrs. Twemlow. 

“Only by marriage, ” said Joe. 

“Well, we needn’t begin to quarrel about him, Joe, he 
haven’t come yet, and I'm sure my people don’t want 
anything from him.” 

“They won’t get it if they do/’ replied Joe, who felt 
rather aggrieved that the Whympennys should make such 
a fuss about his uncle, and Mrs. Twemlow, being a wise 
little woman, allowed the matter to drop. 

In the family of the Greens, the matter was also dis- 
cussed that evening. When Sam Green, the sporting and 
rheumatic waiter, came limping in with the special 
Standard , which he always purchased for the winners 
and the staiting prices, and began growling and swearing 
because a ten-to-one chance, on which he put the half 
crown he had borrowed of his hard-working little wife, 
had been beaten by a neck. Mrs. Green informed him 
that “Uncle Eli, who was so rich, was coming home 
from America.” 

What ! ” exclaimed Sam, and immediately he conceived 
a wild idea of gettingUncle Eli to advance him a hundred 
or so, with which he could start a ready-money book, and 
lay against the animals who persisted in going down 
whep he backed them. 


DRAMAS OF LIFE . 


41 


The policeman was married, and so was the fruiterer, 
and that evening the policeman called on the fruiterer, 
and the brothers went out together and had a friendly 
glass and a cigar together at the Three Jolly Sailors, and 
they both agreed that Uncle Eli’s acquaintance must be 
cultivated. 

Jane, the housekeeper to an invalid gentleman, asked 
for the evening next day, and came round and had tea 
with Mrs. Twemlow, and discussed the matter'before Joe 
came in from his work, and Mrs. Twemlow said : 

“You know, Jane, Uncle Eli was a great admirer of 
yours twenty years ago. ” 

“Oh, nonsense/' replied Jane; “besides, if he was, 
he’s forgotten me long ago.” 

“Well,” said Mary, “I shall ask master to let me ask 
him to tea here when he comes, and you must come, too.” 

Jane laughed. She confessed she should be very glad 
to see Uncle Eli again, and then both sisters hoped that if 
he went down to the Twemlows they would make him 
comfortable and treat him properly, and that no designing 
member of the Twemlow family would get hold of him 
for their own ends and purposes. 

You see the Whympennys had gradually established a 
claim to the Twemlows’ uncle as their own uncle, and 
long before he arrived every member of the Whympenny 
family referred to him as “Uncle Eli from America,” a 
proceeding which invariably put Joe Twemlows back up, 
and caused him to bang the table and proclaim for the 
hundredth time that Eli Furlong was his mother’s brother, 
and his uncle, and that the Whympennys had nothing to 
do with it. 

And just as the relations of the family were getting a 
little strained, owing to frequent tea parties at each other’s 
houses, and rather heated discussions as to who had the 
best right to be polite to Uncle Eli, and who had the least 
right to “shove themselves forward,” Uncle Eli arrived 
in London. 


42 


DRAMAS OF LIFE . 


The news of his arrival was accompanied by a thunder- 
clap. 

A bold, designing young woman, the wife of Tom 
Dodson, who was nothing but a second cousin of Uncle 
Eli, had actually gone to Liverpool, met the ship, seized 
Uncle Eli at the landing-stage, and borne him off in 
triumph to her home at North Woolwich, which she had 
persuaded him was the most central point in the Me- 
tropolis, close to the principal theatres and thoroughfares, 
and within walking distance of Westminster Abbey, St. 
Paul’s Churchyard, the monument, the Zoological Gardens 
and the .British Museum. 

The Twemlows and the Whympennys forgot their 
jealousy of each other and joined hands in the face of a 
common enemy — to think that a second cousin’s wife, a 
Dodson, should actually have secured their Uncle Eli, and 
locked him within her own four walls, while they were 
devising little schemes to keep him from each other. 

It was perfidy ! It was treachery ! It was an outrage 
on family rights ! 

The men declared that Mrs. Tom Dodson was an artful 
minx — the ladies rolled up their eyes and held up their 
hands and declared that Mrs. Tom Dodson’s conduct was 
“downright indecent ! *’ 

But Mr. and Mrs. Tom Dodson had secured possession 
of Uncle Eli — he was in their house, his boxes were there, 
and there was no getting over the fact. 

The first Sunday after Uncle Eli arrived, the capacity of 
Mrs. Dodson’s best parlor was tested to its utmost dimen- 
sions. All the Twemlows and all the Whympennys in 
London arrived about tea-time. Uncle Eli was delighted, 
but Mrs. Tom Dodson was inclined to be nasty. She 
dropped a few pretty straight hints that she hadn’t ex- 
pected so much company. And when everybody had 
crowded round the little table who could, and the others 
sat by the window and by the fire on chairs brought in 


DRAMAS OF LIFE . 


43 

from the kitchen and the bedroom, and cups and saucers 
were short, and the milk ran out, and Uncle Eli talked a 
great deal more to the Whympennys, especially Jane 
Whympenny, than he did to the Twemlows (“his own 
blood,” as they said afterwards), or to the Dodsons, who 
had offered him their home, and given up their best 
bedroom to him, and made themselves his slaves ; then 
Mrs. Dodson, in a private conversation with Joe Twemlovv, 
asserted that the Whympennys were a forward lot, and 
that she had always heard they were fond of shoving 
themselves in where they weren’t wanted, and there and 
then Mrs. Dodson improved the occasion by informing 
Joe Twemlow that the Whympennys were wasting their 
time, for, so far from Uncle Eli being a millionaire, he’d 
only got about a couple of thousand pounds put away, 
and he wasn’t the man to be bamboozled by strangers 
into neglecting his own kindred. 

Only a couple of thousand pounds ! Joe Twemlow 
thought that was a great deal of money, and he said so ; 
and as to Uncle Eli not being bamboozled — well, he was 
a very generous man, and though he, Joe, had married a 
Whympenny, he wouldn’t trust one farther than he could 
see her or him— especially her ! 

When Mrs. Dodson and Joe Twemlow came in from 
the garden with Tom Dodson (they had been out to get 
Joe’s professional opinion as to the best way of stopping 
the vegetable marrows from spreading all over the place 
and even coming in at the kitchen door and running up 
the side of the house and getting into the dog kennel and 
lolling over the garden wall after the manner of free and 
unrestrained vegetable marrows generally), they — Joe 
and Mrs. Dodson and Tom — not the vegetable marrows 
— found Uncle Eli so surrounded by the Whympennys 
that you couldn’t see anything of him except just the top 
of his bald head, and they were all inviting him at the 
top of their voices to come and see them at their respec- 


44 


DRAMAS OF LIFE . 


tive residences and take tea at the earliest possible oppor- 
tunity. 

“ Don’t crowd Uncle Eli like that,” exclaimed Mrs. 
Dodson, angrily. 

“They ain’t crowding me,” answered Uncle Eli. 
“They’re only inviting me to see them. I think I’ll go 
and have tea with Mary to-morrow evening, eh ? ” 

“Yes, do,” exclaimed Mrs. Twemlow. “ I'm sure mas- 
ter won’t mind.” Then turning to her sister, she said, 
“Jane, you’ll come, won’t you?” 

Joe Twemlow at once suggested that the party would 
be too large. 

“The master mightn’t like a big party in his kitchen.” 

“You go on, Joe, and mind your own business,” 
answered his wife, sharply. “I know master won’t say 
anything if I tell him first.” 

Joe Twemlow wanted Uncle Eli to come, but he didn’t 
care about Jane Whympenny. 

Mrs. Dodson, finding that no mention was made of her 
coming, too, at once reminded Uncle Eli that they had 
arranged to go to the theatre on Monday evening. 

Uncle Eli would put that off. 

Then Mrs. Dodson recollected she had asked some par- 
ticular friends of hers to meet Uncle Eli on Monday even- 
ing and have supper. 

Whereupon Mary Twemlow, who was a plucky little 
woman, went quietly up to Mrs. Dodson and suggested 
in a low voice that she supposed Mrs. Dodson would like 
to keep Uncle Eli all to herself, and why didn’t she lock 
him up in the top attic and put a policeman to guard the 
door. 

Mrs. Dodson replied that some people thought they 
were very clever, but she could see through them, and 
the ladies’ voices gradually rose, which created a diver- 
sion and drew all the family away from Uncle Eli to join 
in the discussion. 


DRAMAS OF LIFE . 


45 

This gave Mr. Sam Green, the rheumatic and sporting 
waiter, the opportunity he had a long time been watching 
for, and he button-holed Uncle Eli at once and informed 
him of a scheme which he had for making a fortune on 
the turf which only required a hundred pounds for its 
development. 

The discussion in the corner between Mrs. Dodson and 
Mrs. Twemlow ended in all the Whympennys, with Mary 
Twemlow at their head, going upstairs to put on their 
bonnets and cloaks, and vowing that they would never 
cross Mrs. Dodson’s threshold again, and they only hoped 
that poor Uncle Eli would see through her in time and 
escape with a remnant of his fortune left to cheer his 
declining days. 

And when the ladies were upstairs robing for their de- 
parture, Tom Whympenny, the fruiterer, and Jack Whym- 
penny, the policeman, each had a short interview with 
Uncle Eli, and placed themselves body and soul at his 
service, and both took the opportunity of warning him 
against Sam Green, who never had a shilling to bless 
himself with through his gambling propensities ; and they 
also hinted that North Woolwich was by no means a 
healthy place, especially for people who had lived for a 
long time in America. 

, When the family party had broken up Mrs. Dodson 
gave vent to tears and became slightly hysterical. It 
was so hard that her kindness to her dear Tom’s cousin 
should be misinterpreted. Uncle Eli reassured Mrs. Dod- 
son and persuaded her to dry her eyes, and presented her 
there and then with a beautiful gold watch which he had 
intended for his sister, old Mrs. Twemlow. 

But he went to the Twemlow tea party the next even- 
ing, and there he found Joe and Mary and Jane, all smil- 
ing and waiting for him. “Master” had readily given 
his consent to the entertainment of Uncle from America, 
and Mary had enlisted the cook’s good graces, and a very 


DRAMAS OF LIFE . 


46 

substantial high tea was laid out on the snowiest of white 
cloths. Mary had gone to no end of expense in the mat- 
ter. She had drawn a whole sovereign out of the Post 
Office Savings Bank, although she had only a week pre- 
viously assured Joe, her husband, that she hadn’t one 
there, and she had provided a beautiful ham, cold fowls, 
cakes, shrimps, watercresses, jams, and all the luxuries 
of the season. 

Joe Twemlow made himself very agreeable all the 
evening, except when Uncle Eli paid too much attention 
to Jane Whympenny, and there was only one anxious 
moment during the entire festival, and that was when the 
cook, who was a single young woman of some sixteen 
stone weight, favored the company with her religious 
views, and it was found that she and Uncle Eli belonged 
to the same body of brethren, and the cook informed 
Uncle Eli where the chapel was she attended, and offered 
to introduce him to the minister. 

In the face of this common danger, Joe Twemlow and 
Jane Whympenny stood side by side and turned the con- 
versation instantly on to some other subject. There is 
no more dangerous place for a rich widower than the 
chapel to which he is introduced by a fair co-religionist 
who has arrived at middle age, a spinster. 

When the Twemlow party broke up Uncle Eli presented 
Mary Twemlow with a bracelet which had been his 
wife’s, and he saw Jane Whympenny to her ’bus, courte- 
ously declining the offer of Joe to accompany them. This 
made Joe ill-tempered for the rest of the evening, and he 
kept his wife awake half the night by lecturing her on the 
impropriety of her trying to hook his uncle for one oiher 
sisters before his very eyes. 

The next festival connected with the return of Uncle 
Eli took place in the little Bedfordshire village. Having 
expressed his intention of visiting his sister, the Whym- 
penny’s (who, you may remember, came from next door) 


DRAMAS OF LIFE. 


47 


determined to make his visit the occasion of a family gath- 
ering. So they invited uncle to dine at their lather's cot- 
tage on the Sunday following his arrival, and he readdy 
accepted, old Mr. and Mrs. Twemlow of course included 
in the invitation. 

Mary Twemlow, an excellent manageress, was en- 
trusted with all the arrangements of the feast. She ob- 
tained leave from her master to be absent from the Satur- 
day to the Monday, and on Saturday evening she ar- 
rived with her husband, a splendid leg of mutton, a 
Christmas pudding, a round of beef, a goose, two bottles 
of sherry and a bottle of the best Scotch. Scotch was 
Uncle Eli's infallible remedy for indigestion, and he only 
took it as a medicine, being a teetotaller ; but after beef 
and mutton, and goose and plum-pudding, indigestion is 
allowable in the best regulated teetotaller. 

The only unpleasantness which marred the festive 
gathering in its initial stage was caused by old Mrs. 
Twemlow. Old Mrs. Twemlow enjoyed the reputation 
in the village of always speaking her mind plainly with 
an utter lack of consideration for the feelings of her hear- 
ers. Old Mrs. Twemlow commenced to speak her mind 
directly her brother arrived. She informed him bluntly 
that he was an old fool. 

.After twenty years absence in America it is not pleas- 
ant to be welcomed back to your native village by your 
nearest relative w T ith the assurance that you are an old 
fool. 

Uncle Eli smiled. 

“You're not a bit changed, Sister Sue,” he said pleas- 
antly. 

“ No, I’m not changed, Eli. I always did speak my 
mind, and I always will. You're an old fool. You're 
letting yourself be gulled by those Dodsons, who won't 
leave you a rag to your back, and if they do the Whym- 
pennys will have it. ” 


48 


DRAMAS OF LIFE . 


“ Oh, nonsense, Sue. They’ve only been showing me 
a little kindness.” 

“ Showing you a little kindness ! Oh, yes, I've heard 
about it. A gold watch for a fourpenny plate of ham, a 
bracelet for a cup of tea. They’ve made you pay for your 
kindness, anyhow, and your own lawful relations haven’t 
so much as seen a new gown, or an ornament for the 
chimneypiece. Mark my words, Eli Furlong, they’ll strip 
you to the skin.” 

Eli Furlong knew by the experience of his youth that 
it was no good contradicting Sister Sue, so he laughed 
and walked off to the market town, three miles away, 
and returned with a clock under his arm as a peace- 
offering to his sister. 

Mrs. Twemlow accepted the clock witfi a grunt, turned 
it over, and examined it critically, and then said : 

“ H’m ! I know it. It’s been in Robinson the pawn- 
broker’s window for the last six months. A great bar- 
gain — one pound sixteen shillings and sixpence, and the 
gold watch you gave that Dodson woman I’m told cost 
thirty pounds if it cost a penny. Thank you, Eli, all the 
same.” 

Uncle Eli began to wish that he hadn’t come ; but he 
was all right when later on Mary and Joe arrived, bringing 
with them the beef and the goose and the mutton, and 
Jane. 

Jane Whympenny was a comely, lady-like woman of 
two and forty. She had lived in good places, and ac- 
quired the dignified demeanor of the housekeeper of 
clergymen and invalid widowers. She always wore a 
black silk dress, and a long gold chain, and she had lace 
collars and cuffs. Her once jet black hair had turned gray, 
as jet black hair will do ; but her complexion was still the 
complexion of a country woman, and her eyes were large 
and bright. Altogether a most desirable housekeeper was 
Jane Whympenny, with the West End Hall mark on her. 


DRAMAS OF LIFE . 


49 

and evidently from her conversation just the sort of a 
woman to make a home happy and comfortable with 
a due regard to economy. 

Uncle Eli was only sixty — a fine well-preserved man. 
Jane was forty-two. No wonder Joe Twemlow shook 
his head — no wonder old Mrs. Twemlow spoke her mind 
— no wonder Mrs. Dodson cried her eyes out with rage 
when a beautiful gold necklace which had come over in 
Uncle Eli’s trunk was one day quite by accident dis- 
covered to be in the possession of Jane Whympenny. 

The Sunday dinner party at Mr. Whympenny’s cottage 
would have been a great success but for three drawbacks. 
The first drawback was old Mrs. Twemlow’s outspoken 
mind, the second was the arrival of Sam Green (uninvited) 
by the two o’clock train from London, in a condition 
partly caused by rheumatism, and partly caused by 
whiskey, which made it difficult for him to walk or to sit 
up straight, and the third drawback was the curious con- 
duct of Joe Twemlow, who would persist in telling a story 
about a young woman of forty-two who had married an 
old man of sixty for his money and then got rid of him 
by putting arsenic in his tea ; and each time that Joe told 
the story he was careful to add that she didn’t put any 
arsenic in the old man’s beer because he was a teetotaller. 

Mrs. Twemlow enjoyed her son’s story — nobody else 
did. 

“Very true, Joe,” she said, “very true. He was an 
old fool to be took in by her, but there’s plenty of old 
fools about.” 

Poor Mary Twemlow, who had cooked the dinner and 
done all the work, and whose heart and soul were in the 
party, looked daggers at her husband ; but it was all no 
use, and he would have gone on telling the story till the 
party broke up if Sam Green, who had been picked up on 
the floor and under the table, and propped up in the easy 
chair, hadn’t created a diversion by going into the back 

4 


DRAMAS OF LIFE. 


50 

kitchen and falling into the fireplace, where he lay smould- 
ering until the smell of singed whiskers and hair attracted 
the attention of the company, who rushed in just in time 
to roll him on the floor and put out his shirt front, which 
was just beginning to blaze. Then Joe Twemlow and 
Jack the policeman carried him up to bed between them, 
and Uncle Eli went off for a doctor, asking Jane to 
accompany him, as he had forgotten where the doctor 
lived after thirty years. And Uncle Eli having gone, old 
Mrs. Twemlow denounced the Whympennys in such 
unmeasured terms that old Mr. Whympenny requested 
her to leave the house, and Joe interfered and said he 
wouldn’t have his mother insulted ; and the family row 
was at its height, when Uncle Eli and Jane returned with 
the doctor, and it raged so furiously that at last he lost his 
temper, and declaring that he would no longer be a bone 
of contention, seized his bag and strode off to the Railway 
Station and returned to London by the evening train, 
much to the mortification of the Twemlows, whose morti- 
fication was increased when it was found that Jane 
Whympenny, having to be back home that evening, was 
compelled to travel to London by the same train. 

* * * * * * * 

A month later Uncle Eli was on the platform at Euston 
Square. He was gbing to sail for America. All his rela- 
tions had gathered to see him off. He had been generous 
to them all, but they were none of them satisfied. Old 
Mrs. Twemlow had offended her brother for ever by 
saying that he ought to be put in a lunatic asylum or 
Chancery, she wasn’t sure which. Mrs. Dodson had 
offended him by suggesting that he should put his money 
in a bank over here, and her husband would send him 
some out when he wanted it. Sam Green had offended 
him by telling him that he had put twenty-five pounds on 
a horse because he thought it was a certainty, and it had 
been beaten by a head, and as the bet was booked in his 


DRAMAS OF LIFE. 


5 * 


name he would have to give him, Sam, the twenty-five 
pounds to pay up with ; and Joe Twemlow had offended 
him by continually telling the tale about the wife of forty- 
two who poisoned the old gentleman of sixty. The only 
person who hadn’t offended him was Mary Twemlow, 
who told him straight to his face that she didn’t want 
anything of him, but that she liked him because he was a 
kind-hearted good old man and Joe’s uncle. 

I beg pardon, there was one other person who had not 
offended him, and she was not at the Station to see him 
off. 

Nobody could make it out. 

“ Where’s Jane? ” they said. “After the way she’s set 
her cap at Uncle Eli, it’s a wonder she isn’t here.” 

The only person who knew why Jane Whympenny 
wasn’t there was her sister, Mary Twemlow, and she said 
nothing. 

But three days afterwards the whole family knew it. A 
letter was received from Uncle Eli, posted at Liverpool, 
and it announced that previous to his leaving London 
Jane Whympenny had honored him by becoming Jane 
Furlong, and that she had gone to Liverpool by a different 
train, and that the happy couple were now on their way 
to America. 

The Twemlows were terribly disgusted. The Dodsons 
said it was a barefaced robbery. The Whympennys con- 
soled themselves with the fact that Uncle Eli had, after 
all, been secured by one of the family. If Uncle Eli 
should return from America again, the Whympennys may 
possibly speak to him — but the Twemlows and the Dod- 
sons — Never 1 


THE SUICIDE’S LEGACY. 


On the night of the 14th of November, 1882, the entire 
Metropolis was wrapped in a dense fog. It had come on 
about four in the afternoon, and had rapidly increased in 
density until locomotion became almost impossible. As 
the warehouses and shops closed their shutters the last 
rays of light seemed to vanish from the thoroughfares, 
and the cries of belated wayfarers were heard in every 
direction. The omnibusses had ceased running at seven 
o’clock. Here and there a cabman, preceded by men 
with flaming torches, endeavored to convey a fare, who 
offered an exorbitant price, to a railway station or to his 
home, but the task was one both of difficulty and of 
danger, difficulty because it was impossible even by the 

aid of the torches to recognize streets or turnings danger, 

because the cab was as often on the pavement as off it. 

It was about eight o’clock in the evening when Captain 
George Carlyon, of the Cape Mail Service, found himself, 
to the best of his belief, in Hyde Park. A man with whom 
he had collided had told him that he was in Hyde Park, 
and that if he kept straight on and hugged the rails, he 
would presently find himself at the Marble Arch. 

Captain Carlyon had arrived that day with his ship at 
the West India Docks. On the voyage home a peculiar 
adventure had befallen him. A few days after they left 
Natal, a saloon passenger had requested an interview with 
him. The passenger was a young man, of gentlemanly 
manners, who had taken his berth in the name of Robert 
Howard. Mr. Howard, when he came on board, seemed 


DRAMAS OF LIFE . 


53 


very unwell. He had not appeared at the public table 
once, alleging indisposition, and he had remained con- 
tinually in his cabin. When Captain Carlyon received 
Mr. Howard’s message he went to him and found him in 
a state of great depression. 

“Captain/’ he said, “I have a presentiment that I shall 
not live to reach England. If I do not, I wish you to 
deliver all the property about me, together with a letter 
which I will give you, to a relative of mine in London. 
Will you ease my mind by undertaking this task forme? ” 

“My dear sir,” replied the captain, “I am sorry to find 
you a prey to such gloomy forebodings. Let me send 
the doctor to see you.” 

“No doctor can do me any good, and I decline to see 
one,” exclaimed the passenger, a little irritably. “ I don’t 
say that I am going to die, but if I should, will you do as 
I ask ? ” 

“Certainly, but ” 

“Thank you,” said the passenger, without waiting for 
the Captain to conclude the sentence. “ Here is the 
letter. My luggage of course you will take possession of 
should anything happen.” 

Robert Howard drew from his breast pocket, as he 
spoke, a long, sealed envelope, and handed it to the Cap- 
tain, who read the address — 

Miss May Summers, 

No. — , Pembroke Square, 

Kensington. 

“You’ll give me your solemn promise that you will do 
as I ask? ” said Robert Howard, fixing his eyes steadily 
upon the Captain’s face. 

“ I give you my solemn promise ; but if when we arrive 
at our destination you should be alive and well ? ” 

“Then you will hand the letter to me, but not until the 
very last moment, as I quit the ship for the shore.” 

Captain Carlyon assured Mr. Howard that his strange 


DRAMAS OF LIFE . 


54 

request should be faithfully carried out, and expressing- a 
hope that the invalid would soon recover his spirits and 
feel better, he left him, and taking the letter into his cabin 
locked it carefully away with his own private papers. 

Late that night, after the bulk of the passengers had 
retired to rest, a sudden cry was raised by the lookout 
man : 

“A man overboard.” 

Instantly all was confusion. There was a rush to the 
side of the vessel — the engines were stopped, the men 
prepared to lower the boats, but nothing could be dis- 
covered. 

“Are you certain you saw a man go overboard?” 
exclaimed the Captain, as he anxiously scanned the sur- 
face of the sea. 

“Positive, sir. He was a standing there, leaning over 
the bulwarks — all of a sudden he climbed up, and was 
over. I saw him go, and heard the splash. He seemed 
to go down like a lump of lead.” 

It was a calm night, and a boat was lowered instantly. 
The men rowed about in every direction, but no trace of 
the missing man was to be seen. 

After remaining until it was certain that no hope was 
possible, the Captain reluctantly gave orders to proceed. 

In the meantime the officers had made a search of the 
vessel to endeavor to find out who the passenger was. 
The task was not a difficult one. Mr. Robert Howard’s 
cabin was found to be empty. Lying on the little table 
in his berth was a letter addressed to the Captain. 

Captain Carlyon opened it at once and read it. 

“Sir, — I have committed suicide. I charge you as a 
gentleman, and a man of honor, to deliver the letter in 
your possession, unopened to the person to whom it is 
addressed. There is nothing in it which will tell you 
more than you already know — that Robert Howard, of 
Natal, has committed suicide on the high seas. Open 
the hand-bag in my cabin. ” 


DRAMAS OF LIFE. 


55 


Captain Carlyon felt that there was no good to be done 
by opening the sealed letter, and he was reluctant to diso- 
bey the wish of the dead man. But he felt that a painful 
task was in store for him when he presented the letter to 
this young lady, who was probably a relative, or perhaps 
the sweetheart of the suicide. 

He duly entered all the particulars of the occurrence, 
to report to the authorities on his arrival, and, having 
taken charge of the deceased man’s effects, he endeavored 
to banish the tragic occurrence from his mind. 

On one point his mind was set at rest when he opened 
the hand-bag in the suicide’s cabin. It contained a le- 
gally drawn document, duly signed and witnessed, in 
the shape of a will, by which Robert Howell (otherwise 
Howard) left all the property he might die possessed of 
to May Summers, at present residing at No. — ,Pembroke- 
square, Kensington. 

“Howell (otherwise Howard),” said the Captain. 
“ The man has evidently been going under two names — 
I wonder whether that has anything to do with his sui- 
cide.” 

When Captain Carlyon reached London, on the 14th of 
November, he duly reported the affair to the authorities, 
and deposited the will and the boxes of the deceased 
passenger with the owners, there to remain until Miss 
May Summers claimed them. 

But the letter was a different matter. This he had sol- 
emnly promised the dead man to deliver himself. Busi- 
ness detained him in the city until late in the afternoon, 
and then, having no relatives in London to visit, he set 
out for South Kensington. 

He managed, by taking the Underground Railway, 
to overcome the difficulty of the fog, and he found the 
house in Pembroke-square. But on knocking, and en- 
quiring for Miss May Summers, he was informed that the 
young lady no longer resided there. The gentleman who 


DRAMAS OF LIFE. 


56 

answered his inquiries, informed him that Miss Sum- 
mers had been in his employment for the last three years 
as resident governess, but that she had been dismissed a 
month since, and he did not know what had become of her. 

The gentleman not seeming anxious to prolong the in- 
terview the Captain left, and thus experienced a rebuff at 
the first attempt to find the suicide’s heiress. 

“ I suppose I’d better take the letter back to the owners,” 
he said to himself, “and let them find the young lady. 
I can’t go hunting about London for her.” 

He began to think over the details of the curious ad- 
venture in which he found himself involved, and think- 
ing, he forgot all about the fog, and instead of going to 
the Kensington Railway Station, lost himself, wandered 
about, and eventually found himself at eight o’clock in 
the evening wandering about Hyde Park, utterly lost and 
for a long time utterly unable to find anyone who could 
put him right. 

The one man he had met — the man with whom he had 
collided so violently, had told him to follow the railings 
and he would get to the Marble Arch, but he didn’t know 
that that would be any particular advantage to him, for 
the Marble Arch is not Highbury, and it was at High- 
bury that the Captain lodged when in town. Still, once 
through the Marble Arch, he would be in a main thor- 
oughfare, and so he went cautiously on, choked with the 
soot-laden fog, his eyes smarting and tingling, and hands 
numbed with the icy coldness of the rails which he 
grasped as a guide. 

Plunging forward in the darkness, he suddenly stum- 
bled and came to a full stop. His foot had struck against 
something lying on the ground. The stumble brought 
him almost down on his knees. Putting out his hands to 
save himself, he was horrified at discovering that it was 
a body lying in his path. Passing his hands rapidly over 
it he found by the dress that if was a woman, 


DRAMAS OF LIFE . 


57 

Whether she was young or old, well dressed or poorly 
clad, it was too dark to see, but she was a woman and 
the Captain could not leave her lying there. 

He took her gently by the arm and shook her. “Hi, 
my good woman, whats the matter ? ” he exclaimed. 

No answer. 

“My God, suppose she should be dead,” he said to 
himself. He couldn’t leave the poor creature lying there 
all through the foggy night, but what was he to do? He 
shouted, but no answer came. Then he knelt down again 
and felt as best he could for the woman’s heart. 

It was beating. 

Then he shouted again — shouted with all the strength 
of his lungs, “ Help ! help ! help ! ” 

Presently he heard the sound of footsteps, and a voice 
crying “What is it — where are you? ” 

“ Here,” he cried, “this way ; there’s a woman lying 
on the ground here.” 

The sound of the voices came nearer, and presently 
two policemen with their lanterns stood beside him. 

Their lanterns threw out but a weak little ray of light 
against the density of the fog, but when that ray rested 
upon the woman’s face the three men started back with 
a cry of pity. 

Lying senseless on the pathway before them was a 
young and beautiful girl. Her face w T as deadly white, 
her eyes were closed, but the features were unmistakably 
those of a refined and delicate lady. She was dressed 
plainly but neatly, and her hat, which had fallen off, had 
allowed a wealth of wavy brown hair to escape from its 
confinement, and form, as it were, a dark frame to the 
pale beautiful face. 

One of the policemen looked anxiously at her face and 
neck as the other held the lantern. 

“No,” he said, presently, “I don’t think she’s been 
knocked down or attacked, it looks more as if she’d 
fainted. Hi, miss J ” 


58 


DRAMAS OF LIFE . 


Still there was no answer. 

The men between them lifted the poor girl to her feet, 
and one of them, taking her gloves off, began to rub her 
hands, which were like ice. 

Presently the girl opened her eyes. 

“ Where am I ? ” she moaned feebly. 

“ You’re all right, Miss/’ said one of the policemen 
kindly. “ Did you faint ? ” 

“ Yes — yes. I was frightened, and I was faint, and 
I — ” 

“ Where do you live, Miss ? ” 

The girl looked from one to the other with a dazed 
expression. It was evident that her senses were only 
gradually returning. 

“Yes, where do you live? We’ll see you home.” 

“I have no home,” cried the girl; then, putting her 
hands up, and covering her face, she began to sob. 

The heart of the sailor was touched to the core. 

“ My dear young lady,” he said, “pray tell us where 
you live ; we can’t leave you here. ” 

“Yes,” she moaned “you must, you must.” 

“Poor thing,” said the policeman, “she seems weak 
and ill. Come, Miss, we can’t leave you. Would you 
like to go to the station and see our doctor ? ” 

“The station — the police station? Oh, no, no.” 

The wail of the terrified girl rang out upon the night 
air. 

“My dear young lady,” cried Captain Carlyon, the tears 
coming into his honest sailor eyes, “ you are evidently 
in some great trouble. Is there nowhere you can let 
them take you ? You are not fit to go alone on such a 
terrible night as this. Is there any way that I can assist 
you ? ” 

“We’d better take her to the station, sir,” said one of the 
policemen. She’ll be taken care of there till the morning. 
Perhaps she’ll tell us when we get her there, 


DftAMAS OF LIFE . 


59 

* No, no, don’t take me there,” cried the girl, “ I have 
done nothing wrong. I will tell you all I can, and you 
must let me go. You have no right to detain me.” She 
tried to withdraw her arms from those of the men who 
were supporting her, but was incapable of the effort. 

“You must have some friends,” suggested the Captain, 
“some one who could give you shelter on a night like 
this.” 

“ Friends,” moaned the girl bitterly. “No, I have no 
friends. I am a governess, a governess out of a situation 
— a governess with no money left to pay for her lodgings.” 

“Well, Miss,” said the policeman in a kindly voice, 
you can tell us what your name is, and where your last 
place was. You see we find you here fainting in the 
park, and ” 

“ Very well,” replied the girl, her lips trembling and 
her eyes filling with tears, “I will tell you. My name 
is May Summers ; until a month ago I was a governess 
at No. — , Pembroke Square ” 

“ What !” exclaimed Captain Carlyon, “you are May 
Summers — it — it seems impossible, and I have here in my 
pocket a letter for you that was given me ” 

The policemen were standing open-mouthed, but the 
girl seemed scarcely to understand as Captain Carlyon 
felt in his breast pocket for the pocket-book containing 
the dead man s legacy. 

He thrust his hand in his pocket, and then gave a cry 
of surprise and horror. 

The pocket-book was gone ! 

“Great heavens ! ” he exclaimed, “I had it just now. 
I must have lost it. I ” 

He said no more. An exclamation from the policemen 
stopped him. The young lady had gone off again into 
a dead faint, and lay a helpless burthen on the shoulder 
of the big sergeant, who put his arm round her waist and 
half-carried her to one of the park seats a few feet away. 


6o 


DRAMAS OF LIFE . 


The next morning Captain Carlyon felt it his duty to 
tell the manager at the Company’s office all that had 
happened on the previous evening. 

He briefly narrated the extraordinary meeting with May 
Summers, his discovery of the loss of the pocket-book, 
and the way in which the difficulty as to what to do with 
the unfortunate girl had been solved by the kindness of 
the sergeant who had secured a room for her at a respect- 
able coffee-house in the neighborhood, and placed her in 
charge of the landlady while Captain Carlyon had gone 
for a doctor and engaged him at once to attend to the in- 
teresting patient The doctor reported that the young 
lady was evidently in a nervous and depressed condition, 
and was suffering from weakness and want of proper 
food. That was his opinion. He gave the landlady 
certain directions, ordered some nourishment to be given 
at once, and promised to come in again in the morning. 
Captain Carlyon was terribly distressed at the loss of the 
letter, the more especially as he was in absolute ignorance 
of its contents. By the advice of the firm he determined 
to seek an interview with Miss Summers as soon as she 
was able to receive him and to tell her the whole story. 

The position was slightly an awkward one. Miss 
Summers was a young and beautiful girl, but according 
to her own account homeless and friendless. Single 
young sea captains and pretty young governesses out of 
a situation cannot have confidential interviews anywhere. 
The Captain at last hit upon an idea, which he felt would 
be a satisfactory solution of the difficulty. He went to 
his solicitors, placed the whole of the matter in their 
hands, and they wrote to Miss Summers asking her to 
make an appointment with them at their offices, on a 
matter of great importance to her. 

T wo days after the receipt of the letter Miss Summers 
was sufficiently recovered to call, and on being shown 


DRAMAS OF LIFE. 6 1 

into the private office she found Mr. Bates, the solicitor, 
and Captain Carlyon waiting to receive her. 

May Summers did not recognize the Captain. She 
could scarcely have seen his face that foggy night had 
she been well, but, fainting and half-senseless as she was, 
she had taken no notice of the people about her. 

“ Miss Summers,” said Mr. Bates, speaking in his softest 
professional manner, “ this gentleman is Captain Carlyon, 
of the Cape Mail Steamer Ajax. On the voyage home he 
was entrusted with a letter for you by one of the passen- 
gers, a Mr. Robert Howard or Howell, I am not sure 
what the correct name was ” 

Captain Carlyon was watching May Summers’ face, 
and he was astonished to see the look of terror which 
came into it at the mention of the suicide’s name. 

“ A letter for me ! ” she gasped, “ from that man, and 
you have sent for me to tell me this.” 

She rose from the chair, her pale face flushing, her 
eyes bright with sudden passion. 

“ I have no doubt, sir, you meant kindly,” she added, 
turning to Captain Carlyon, “but I absolutely decline to 
receive any communication of any kind from Mr. Robert 
Howell.” 

She rose and moved to the door. Mr. Bates looked at 
the Captain inquiringly. Should he tell her that the man 
was dead and the letter was lost? 

Captain Carlyon felt that this was the only thing to do. 
It was an intense relief to his mind to find that the matter 
had turned out so well. 

“Miss Summers, ” he said, “I feared that it would 
have been a great shock to you when I told you that in 
some unaccountable way I had lost that letter.” 

“ Lost it ! ” exclaimed the girl. 

“Yes, on the night of the 14th of November I called at 
the address Mr. Howard gave me in order to hand you 
the letter. You had left. On my way back I got lost in 


6 2 


DRAMAS OF LIFE. 


the fog, and in some extraordinary way my pocket-book 
containing the letter must either have fallen or been taken 
from my pocket. 

“ How was the letter addressed? ” asked Miss Summers 
anxiously. 

“To Miss Summers, No. — , Pembroke Square, Ken- 
sington. ” 

“ My God ! my God ! ” cried the girl, a look of terror 
coming suddenly into her face. “If he should have — 

if it should go there and be opened — if . Oh ! ” she 

cried suddenly seeing that the solicitor and Captain Car- 
lyon were both gazing at her in astonishment, “ you 
must forgive me. You cannot know what this means to 
me. Tell me — this man — do you know where he is — 
where is he waiting to receive my answer? ” 

“Miss Summers,” the Captain said gently, “Robert 
Howard expected no answer. He died on the voyage.” 

“ Dead ! Dead ! Dead ! ” 

The young lady repeated the words slowly, with a far- 
away look in her beautiful eyes. She seemed as though 
she were trying to realize what they meant to her. 

“ He died suddenly on the voyage,” the' Captain con- 
tinued, anxious to get his story done. “After he had 
given me the letter to you, a will was found in his cabin 
leaving everything to you. The property he had with 
him and all the papers found in his cabin are at your 
disposal at the office of the company.” 

She seemed hardly to follow what the Captain said. 

“Dead,” she murmured. “Dead. God be more 
merciful to him than he was to others.” 

“He was a relative of yours, Miss Summers, I pre- 
sume ? ” said the solicitor. 

“Yes,” replied the young lady; “he was.” Then 
rising from her chair she looked at Captain Carlyon. 

“Captain Carlyon,” she said, quietly, “I thank you 
for your kindness. The news which you have brought 


DRAMAS OF LIFE, 


6 3 

me will necessitate my having legal advice.” Then, 
turning to Mr. Bates, she added: “I know no one in 
London — may I tell you my story, and ask you to act 
for me ? ” 

“ Certainly, my dear young lady.” 

The Captain saw at once that he was de trop — the story 
was not for his ears. He rose at once, bowed to Miss 
Summers, telling the solicitor that he would be back in 
an hour and finish his business with him. 

He went out into Lincoln’s Inn Fields, and, lighting a 
cigar, strolled up and down. He had plenty to occupy 
his thoughts. For the first time in his life he found him- 
self connected with a mystery and a romance, and he 
was young enough to appreciate both. He wondered 
what it all meant, this mysterious letter, the suicide at 
the dead of night, the young lady lying homeless and 
friendless in the lonely park. There was plenty of food 
for thought in these incidents, but when he began to 
ponder over all that occurred subsequently — the loss of 
the letter, Miss Summers’ disinclination to receive it, and 
then her terror lest it should have fallen into other hands, 
and her strange expression when she learned that Robert 
Howard — or as she called him Robert Howell — was 
dead — he felt that the solution of the mystery was beyond 
him. He failed to make the incidents fit in with any 
theory that he could form. 

One thing the Captain felt must be done at once, and 
that was to advertise in a guarded way, offering a reward 
for the recovery of the letter, if, of course, it had not 
been picked up by some one who had delivered it at the 
address it bore on the envelope. 

He had not thought of inquiring there. Miss Sum- 
mers’ terror, lest it should have gone there at once showed 
him his folly at not having inquired there at once. 

He had an hour to spare. Why should he not set all 
doubt on that score at rest before seeing his solicitor 
again. 


64 


DRAMAS OF LIFE. 


He took a cab, and bade the man drive him to Ken- 
sington as fast his horse could take them. 

A servant answered the door, and the Captain inquired 
for the master of the house. 

“What name shall I say, sir? ” 

“ Captain Carlyon. Say the gentleman who called the 
other evening to inquire for Miss Summers.” 

After being kept for about five minutes in the hall, the 
Captain was shown into a little library. 

The master of the house — his name Captain Carlyon 
ascertained was Redmond — came in quickly and closed 
the door. 

“Now, sir,” he said, “what is it you want with me? 
I told you the other night I knew nothing of Miss Sum- 
mers’ whereabouts, and I fail to understand why I should 
be annoyed in this way.” 

“ I beg your pardon,” said the Captain, rather angrily, 
for Mr. Redmond’s manner was brusque to a degree, “ I 
fail to see where the annoyance is.” 

“ Do you, sir? Then I will tell you. I object to be 
bothered with questions about my discharged servants.” 

“ Miss Summers was hardly your servant, sir,” replied 
the Captain. “ She was a governess. She is, I am sure, 
a lady.” 

“She was discharged, sir, her wages were paid, and I 
have nothing further to do with her.” 

“Of course not. You may be surprised to hear the 
poor girl of whom you speak so brutally has been seri- 
ously ill — that she is homeless and friendless.” 

“What the deuce has that to do with me, sir?” 

“ That I cannot say,” said the Captain, “unless I learn 
for what reason you dismissed her, and why you are so 
bitter against her.” 

“Indeed; and who are you, pray, sir; one of her 
lov ?” 

Before the word had left his lips Captain Carlyon had 
stopped him with an oath. 


DRAMAS OF LIFE. 6 5 

“ Mr. Redmond,” he exclaimed fiercely, “ I don't know 
much about you, but you are a blackguard.” 

“ Leave my house, sir.” 

“With pleasure, when you have answered me one 
question,” answered the Captain. “Miss Summers was 
discharged by you a month since. Three nights ago she 
was found fainting of weakness and starvation in the 
Park. How she came there on such a night I have yet 
to learn.” 

“ What she did after she left my house has nothing to 
do with me.” 

“That remains to be seen. In the meantime if you 
can control your temper and try to behave like a gentle- 
man for a moment or two, perhaps you'll answer me one 
question.” 

“Well?” 

‘ 1 What have you done with the letters that have been de- 
livered here for Miss Summers since she left ? ” 

Captain Carlyon put the question in that way without 
knowing why he did so. 

It must have been his honest sailor's indignation at the 
man’s conduct that made him assume the fact that he 
had had letters. It was an arrow shot in the dark, but it 
hit the mark. 

The man flushed crimson to the roots of his hair. 

“There have been no letters,” he stammered, “and 
now get out.” 

The insult was brutal ; at another time the sailor would 
have resented it, but, convinced that he had traced the lost 
letter home to Miss Summers’ late employers, he forgot 
everything else. 

“I am going,” he said; “but you will hear from me 
again. A letter for Miss Summers has been sent here 
within the last two days — a letter which was either taken 
from me, or which I dropped — and, unless you restore it, 
untampered with, to me within the next four and twenty 
hours, it’ll be bad for you.” 5 


66 


DRAMAS OF LIFE. 


The Captain went on without the slightest idea of what 
he was going to do, but he knew he was dealing with a 
coward, and so assumed a bullying tone. 

“No letter has been received, sir,” replied Mr. Red- 
mond, recovering his calmness, “and if I am annoyed 
by any further visits from you or anyone else connected 
with this young woman I shall make it a police matter. 
There’s the door. Good-morning.” 

The Captain gave the man a contemptuous glance, and 
walked out of the house with as much dignity as he 
could assume. 

Half an hour later he was ushered into Mr. Bates’ pri- 
vate office — Miss Summers had just left. 

“My dear Carlyon,” exclaimed the solicitor, “ this is a 
most extraordinary affair. The story this young lady has 
told me is one of the strangest I ever listened to in all 
my professional experience. Do you know what the 
relationship was to this man whose letter she refused to 
receive ? ” 

“His cousin — his sister, perhaps,” suggested the Cap- 
tain. 

“ His wife ! ” 

“His wife?” cried the Captain, “and she calls herself 
Miss Summers, and ” 

“There was a reason. Do you know who this Robert 
Howard was ? ” 

“ How should I ? ” 

“You are right — how should you — how should any- 
body, seeing that it was to his interest to conceal his 
identity ? ” 

“Wasn’t his real name Robert Howard then?” 

“No; he must have assumed that name abroad. His 
real name was Robert Howell.” 

“Howell, Howell,” said the Captain, “ I remember 
something about that name now. ” 

“Naturally. Robert Howell was the name of the man 


DRAMAS OF LIFE. 67 

accused of the murder of a woman who was found dead 
in the brougham in which she had driven with a gentle- 
man from the Alhambra to her house in St. John's Wood. 
The man stopped the coachman half-way and got out, 
telling him to drive his mistress home. When the 
brougham stopped at the door, the coachman, surprised 
that his mistress did not alight, got down and spoke to 
her. Receiving no answer, he became alarmed, and 
found that she was dead. A handkerchief saturated with 
chloroform was found lying in the carriage — the poor 
woman had died from the effects of the forced inhalation. 
She had evidently struggled, but had been overpowered 
before she could raise an alarm. The man who left the 
Alhambra with her was identified by accident. When he 
alighted from the brougham he left behind him some- 
thing which had fallen from his pocket in the struggle. 
It was a meerschaum pipe, which was in a case. The 
pipe had evidently been repaired, and inside the case 
was a piece of paper with his name on, evidently placed 
there by the pipe repairer, for identification." 

“I remember the case now," exclaimed Captain Car- 
lyon, “ the woman was called Belle Fullerton. Her 
murderer was never capture*d." 

“No ; it is evident now that he got away to the Cape. 
But the murderer of Belle Fullerton was Robert Howell, 
and the poor girl to whom you carried his dying message, 
the girl who calls herself May Summers, was, God help 
her, the murderers unhappy wife." 

Captain Carlyon heard the solicitors extraordinary 
story to the end without an interruption, without an 
exclamation. 

“What do you think of it?" asked Mr. Bates as he 
finished. 

“ I don't know," replied the Captain. “You see, Bates, 
old fellow, all my adventures have been with the ele- 
ments — not with men and women. This is such a new 


68 


DRAMAS OF LIFE . 


experience for me that I’m out of my bearings. If what 
you tell me is correct, Miss Summers is the lawful wife 
of the man who gave me a letter addressed to her just 
before he committed suicide, and that man was a mur- 
derer. ” 

“That is so.” 

“ And I find the young lady and lose the letter at the 
same time.” 

“ Yes; that was an awkward business. We ought to 
try to recover that letter. It may contain statements 
which it would not be advisable for strangers to see. I 
mean, of course, for my client’s sake.” 

“Bates,” said the Captain, “I believe that letter has 
been picked up and delivered at Pembroke Square, and 
that Miss Summers — I must call her by that name still — 
being absent, her employer, Mr. Redmond, has taken 
possession of it.” 

“Good gracious, man, what makes you think that?” 

“I’ve just come from Pembroke Square. I’ve seen the 
man, and I’ve come to that conclusion. I’ve got the idea 
in my head, and it means to stop there.” 

“ But what motive should he have in concealing the 
fact ? ” 

“I don’t know. Perhaps Miss Summers can throw a 
little light on the subject. Has she told you where she 
is to be found ? ” 

“I have arranged where she shall go for the present. 
I have induced her to be my wife’s guest for a few days, 
until something can be done for her. I’m rather inter- 
ested in her.” 

“ So am I,” exclaimed the Captain ; then catching the 
solicitor’s keen eye fixed on him, he colored and stam- 
mered, “She’s a charming girl, and hers is a sad story, 
and ” 

The solicitor smiled. 

“Take care, Carlyon,” he said kindly; “you sailors 


RAM AS OF LIFE. 6 $) 

are terribly impressionable, and we’ve only Miss Sum- 
mers’s side of the story yet. ” 

“I’d stake my life upon her goodness,” said the Captain 
warmly. Then he added sharply, “Don’t be an idiot, 
Bates. Can’t a fellow take an interest in a friendless girl 
without falling in love with her ? ” 

“Some fellows can — steady-going old fogies, married 
men like myself; but when the lady’s young and pretty, 
and a widow — it’s dangerous for handsome sea-captains 
to make experiments.” 

Captain Carlyon muttered something about “non- 
sense,” but the solicitor’s harmless chaff had aroused 
him to the fact that he did feel a strong personal feeling 
in the young lady’s fortunes already. 

“What is she going to do about the property lying at 
the office? ” he said, to turn the conversation. “ I sup- 
pose it ought to be handed over to her. ” 

“No; she refuses absolutely to have anything to do 
with it. But she is very anxious that the letter entrusted 
to you shall be recovered, because she fears that the se- 
cret of her relationship to the murderer of Belle Fullerton 
may be revealed to the world by its falling into other 
hands.” 

“ Then, by heaven, I’ll have it again ! ” exclaimed the 
Captain. “That man Redmond has it, and he shall give 
it to me, or say what he’s done with it.” 

“Steady, steady, Carlyon; don’t let your valor run 
away with your discretion. First of all we must find out 
from Miss Summers a little more about her late employer. 
She may be able to give us a clue upon which we can 
act.” 

On the following evening Captain Carlyon dined by in- 
vitation at his solicitor’s house. 

There he met Miss Summers, to whom the solicitor’s 
wife had already taken a great fancy. After dinner Mr. 


70 


DRAMAS OF LIFE . 


Bates spoke in the highest terms of the Captain, and as- 
sured the young lady that she might confide in him. It 
was really necessary that she should if she wished the 
missing letter to be traced. 

After a little encouragement Miss Summers told as much 
of the story as the Captain needed to know. 

Left when only sixteen by the death of her father, a 
half-pay naval officer, alone and friendless, she had fled 
to that refuge of the penniless, educated gentlewoman, 
a governess agency. Then she obtained a situation as 
governess in the family of a Mrs. Redmond. She was 
engaged to take charge of the only child, a little girl of 
six. Mr. Redmond was the secretary to a wealthy Benev- 
olent Institution, and his wife had a good income of her 
own, but unfortunately had developed a habit of secret 
drinking, which caused her husband great annoyance and 
made the home an unhappy one. Soon after May Sum- 
mers had accepted the position offered to her, she found 
out the state of affairs. She would have resigned at once 
but she had conceived a great attachment to the child, a 
lovable gentle little creature, who, neglected by her 
mother, and treated with but scant affection by her father, 
clung to the new governess with all a child’s eagerness 
for sympathy and love. 

May Summers had not been long in the house before 
she discovered from the servants and from her mistress’s 
maudlin confidences, what was the original cause of the 
unhappiness of the home. Mr. John Redmond was a sel- 
fish and unprincipled man of pleasure. His young wife 
had discovered, soon after her marriage, that her income 
and not herself was the cause of his wooing. One day 
the bitter truth was forced upon her that the evenings her 
husband spent from home, and which he explained were 
occupied with “business,” were really devoted to his 
own amusements, and that he was a regular patron of 
those places which are the resort of “fast” men and 
“fast” women. 


DRAMAS OF LIFE. 


7 1 

The unhappiness at home reached its height when the 
unfortunate wife acquired convincing proof that her hus- 
band had made the acquaintance of a woman named 
Belle Fullerton, a notorious demi-mondaine, and that he 
had made her several costly presents of jewelry. From 
that moment the unfortunate wife, loving her husband too 
well to leave him, too weak-minded to strive by force 
of character to win him back, took to drowning her sor- 
row in drink. 

May Summers, then barely twenty, was horrified and 
shocked when this new phase of life was opened up to 
her. She pitied the neglected wife and tried all she could 
to save her, but her efforts were in vain. But the woman 
clung to her, trusted her, loved her, and implored her not 
to leave her. So for the sake of the mother and the child 
the young girl stayed on. 

It was after she had been with the Redmonds about two 
years, that Robert Howell became a visitor at the house. 
It was evident that he and Mr. Redmond had some busi- 
ness connection by the way they conversed. Gradually 
Mr. Redmond began to be more at home of an evening, 
and then Robert Howell would come to dinner and stay. 

It was about this time that Robert Howell one day asked 
May Summers to be his wife. They had seen a good 
deal of each other, and when Howell came to stay with 
the Redmonds they were constantly in each other’s com- 
pany. Howell was a good-looking, agreeable fellow — an 
educated man of the world — and always showed the 
greatest consideration for the poor governess’s feelings. 
On many an occasion she felt grateful to him for little 
delicate acts of forethought and kindness, and seeing no 
one else, it was but natural that she should come in time 
to be thankful for the young man’s society. 

Her position at the time was a painful one. Mrs. Red- 
mond had gone from bad to worse and her husband 
talked sometimes of putting her into a private asylum for 


DRAMAS OF LIFE, 


72 

dipsomaniacs. In the event of his being able to do this, 
he said the little girl would be sent to a boarding-school. 
When, therefore, one afternoon, when they were alone 
in the long garden — the child having gone into the house 
— Robert Howell urged his suit — passionately — begged 
the friendless girl to be his wife, and painted their future 
in glowing colors — was it any wonder, with only the 
prospect of a lifelong drudgery before her, that she con- 
sented ? 

From that day they were an engaged couple. One thing 
only Robert stipulated — that the engagement should be 
kept secret from Mr. Redmond for business reasons. The 
girl was quite agreeable to this. She felt that anything 
else would make her position awkward in the house, and 
she wished to stay on as long as she could with her little 
pupil. 

Two months after they had been engaged, Robert pro- 
posed a secret marriage. He urged that at any moment 
he might have to start at a couple of days’ notice for the 
Colonies. The scheme which was to make his fortune was 
nearly ripe — only a little more capital had to be found, and 
then he would have to go abroad at once. There might 
not be time then for the formalities for the marriage. Why 
should he not give notice to the registrar now ? They 
would only have to go out for a walk one morning, step 
into a little room and be married, and come back again, 
and nobody would be any the wiser. He would not claim 
her until they sailed together for the new world. 

To this, after a little demur, May Summers agreed. 
Robert urged his wish in so plausible a manner, his rea- 
sons were so good — at any rate they prevailed — and one 
fine morning an old gentleman at a desk mumbled a few 
words in the presence of two witnesses, hired at two shil- 
lings and sixpence a head, and Robert Howell and May 
Summers took each other for man and wife, and he went 
on to the city, and she went back to Pembroke Square just 
ps if nothing had happened, 


DRAMAS OF LIFE. 


73 

They saw a good deal of each other, of course, for Rob- 
ert now lived with the Redmonds, but never by look or 
word did they betray their secret. 

A week after she had become Robert Howell’s wife, 
May Summers accidentally overheard a conversation be- 
tween her husband and employer. The household had 
retired to rest. The men were alone in the library. May 
had occasion to go downstairs to the dining-room to 
fetch the keys which her mistress had left there. 

As she passed the door she heard words which glued 
her to the spot. She didn’t wish to listen, but she was 
spell-bound. 

“Stop that woman doing what she threatens,” ex- 
claimed Redmond, “ or it will be the worse for both of 
us. ” 

“ She will not keep her threat,” replied Robert Howell. 

“ She will ! She is a devil ! She has blackmailed me 
for months past. Do what you like, only settle the mat- 
ter. Get those letters back.” 

“ What can she do after all ?” urged Howell. “ The 
worst will be to create a scandal. Your wife will do 
nothing — the Institution may dismiss you ; but you have 
an income still, and our scheme once floated ” 

“ Man, I tell you if that woman keeps her threat we 
shall be ruined. Our scheme never would be floated, for 
my name will be disgraced.” 

* ‘ I understand, ” exclaimed Robert Howell. “My God ! 
Redmond, what a fool you’ve been.” 

May Summers stayed to hear no more. 

In the morning when she came down to breakfast her 
husband had left. 

“ Mr. Howell breakfasted early and left for the city 
with the master, Miss, ” said the servant. 

That night Mr. Redmond returned to dinner alone. 
The evening passed and no Robert Howell. May began 
to get seriously anxious. That night she lay awake until 


74 


DRAMAS OF LIFE. 


dawn, thinking a hundred things and blaming herself 
for imagining them. 

The next morning Mr. Redmond was at breakfast when 
she got down. She ventured to ask if Mr. Howell was 
out of town. 

“ Yes.” 

The monosyllable was the only answer her employer 
vouchsafed her. 

That afternoon while out for a walk with her pupil, the 
contents bill of the Globe caught her eye : — 

“ Extraordinary Murder of a Woman ! ” 

She bought the paper, and read the story of the new 
crime which had startled the metropolis. A woman 
named Belle Fullerton had been found murdered in her 
brougham. She had driven home with a gentleman from 
the Alhambra on the previous evening. He had left the 
the brougham halfway. When the carriage stopped at her 
door Belle Fullerton was dead. 

When poor May Summers read the account the paper 
fell from her hands. She nearly fainted in the street. 

But she summoned up all her strength and went back 
home. She remembered the conversation she had heard, 
and she felt convinced that Belle Fullerton had been got 
rid of by her husband at the instigation of Redmond. 
Belle Fullerton was the woman whose letters Mrs. Red- 
mond had discovered in her husband’s room. 

From that hour May Summers never heard again of 
the man she had married. At the inquest it was proved 
that the woman, who had a weak heart, had died under 
the influence of chloroform. Mr. Redmond was called, 
for his knowledge of Robert Howell was soon made known 
to the police. He stated that Howell was to have sailed 
for Australia the day following the murder — that he had 
bidden him good-bye and taken his luggage with him. 
He was absolutely unaware of any reason why Howell 
should have murdered the woman. He admitted his own 


DRAMAS OF LIFE. 


75 

acquaintance with the lady, but it had been broken off 
long ago. 

Inquiries made at the docks had failed to prove that 
any person answering the description of Robert Howell 
had taken a passage. The inquest was adjourned and 
finally closed without any clue to the whereabouts of the 
supposed murderer, or the discovery of the motive of the 
crime. Mrs. Fullerton had a valuable diamond bracelet 
and diamond earrings on, and these were untouched. 
The motive could not have been robbery. It was there- 
fore probably revenge or jealousy. The Coroner's jury 
found a verdict of wilful murder against Robert Howell, 
and then the matter gradually dropped out of general con- 
versation and was forgotten. 

The position of the young wife was terrible. What 
could she do ? If she left the Redmonds she would be 
unable to get another situation. She felt that it would be 
an infamy to enter a family under a false name, and who 
would take her if they knew that she was the wife of an 
uncaptured criminal — an assassin at large. 

So she stayed on, and suffered, and endured, avoiding 
Mr. Redmond as much as she possibly could, finding her 
only comfort in the child. 

But although no word ever passed between them on 
the subject of Robert Howell, Miss Summers found that 
Redmond was suspicious of her. He thought she knew 
more than she ought to have done. The poor girl tortured 
herself over and over again with the thought that she 
ought to have made public what she did know. But she 
would have been a wife coming forward to prove her 
husband's guilt. That no one could expect her to do. 

One day a climax came. Redmond, instead of avoid- 
ing her, took to courting her society. He tried to be 
friendly with her— to enlist her sympathy for his miser- 
able position with a drunken wife. At last she could no 
longer be blind to the fact, that every feeling of honor 


DRAMAS OF LIFE . 


76 

and self-respect demanded that she should quit his roof. 
It broke her heart to leave the wife, to part with the 
child ; but Redmond had made it impossible for her to 
stay. 

Misfortune seemed to dog her footsteps. All the money 
she had in the world — the twenty pounds she had managed 
to save from her paltry salary — was stolen from her the 
day she drew it out in order to go down into a country 
town where she had been sent by an agency. She had 
conquered her scruples as to concealing her name. She 
had one more chance from an agency — she could have 
secured the place — to whom could she refer ? To the 
drunken, almost imbecile wife, or the husband — the man 
she loathed and detested — the man to speak whose very 
name aloud now brought the burning blood to her cheek. 

She hesitated — the lady to whom she was to be gover- 
ness noticed it — the girl burst into tears — that was enough. 
The lady feared Miss Summers would not suit her. 

A month of hopeless despair, a month of agony of 
mind, and then slow starvation of body — everything 
parted with to raise the rent of one room, and then, the 
story is as old as the hills, and yet told again day after 
day in the great cities, the choice of three things, the 
workhouse, the street, or the river ! 

The first day that she w T as homeless, she hardly realized 
the situation. She knew that she was hungry, that her 
limbs ached, that her brain reeled. She knew that 
when night came on, terrified at the fog, numbed with 
the cold, weak, helpless, and hopeless, she fainted and 
fell. And Captain Carlyon knew all the rest. Such was 
the story which, little by little, Carlyon and the solicitor 
gathered and pieced together from May Summers’ own 
lips. 

That night when they were alone in the smoking room, 
the Captain and the solicitor decided on their line of 
action. 


DRAMAS OF LIFE . 


77 


The first thing the solicitor did was to advertise that a 
letter addressed to Miss May Summers had been lost, 
probably in Hyde Park, and to offer a reward to anyone 
restoring it. Two days afterwards a working man called 
at the office. Going to his work through the Park on the 
morning of the 15th of November (the 14th was the foggy 
night ) he had picked up a letter lying on the ground, 
together with a pocket-book and some loose papers. 

He had put them all together and had taken them to 
the only address he could discover, that on the letter. A 
gentleman had taken the letter and said that it was all 
right. He could identify the gentleman, for he had given 
him five shillings for his trouble. 

Captain Carlyon remembered that after calling at Pem- 
broke Square the first time he had placed the pocket-book 
which he had in his hand, having taken the letter from it, 
in the outside breast pocket of his overcoat. This would 
account for its having fallen out when he nearly measured 
his length on the ground, after his violent collision with 
another belated wayfarer. 

The working man’s address was taken, and the next day 
Mr. Bates went with him to Kensington. Mr. Redmond 
was coming out of the door as they arrived. 

“That’s the gentleman I gave the letter and the pocket- 
book to ! ” exclaimed the man, and Redmond, jumping at 
once to the situation, turned deadly pale. 

The man was dismissed, and Mr. Redmond instantly 
conducted the solicitor to his room. 

“Mr. Redmond,” said Mr. Bates, “I am Miss Summers’ 
solicitor. Unless you instantly hand over the letter and 
the pocket-book you received, I shall apply for a summons 
against you, and the whole story of the man who Wrote 
that letter may be revealed, together with your share in 
the transaction. What do you intend to do ? ” 

Redmond hesitated. 


DRAMAS OF LIFE, 


78 

“And if I have destroyed the letter accidentally ? ” 

“Then you can explain that to the magistrate. Re- 
member you have denied the possession of that letter to 
Captain Carlyon. ” 

“I will be frank with you, sir,” said Mr. Redmond; 
“This letter has come into my possession, and I have 
opened it. I have learned from it that Miss Summers was 
the wife of this Robert Howell. As she has concealed 
the fact so far, I think I am right in presuming that she 
doesn’t particularly wish it proclaimed to the world now ! ” 

“ Go on, sir.” 

“That is the first point. The second is that while this 
letter contains information of great value to Miss Sum- 
mers, it also contains statements which are highly injurious 
to me.” 

“Go on.” 

“Now, if I confess that I have not destroyed the letter, 
for reasons of my own, and I agree to give it up, will 
you pledge yourself not to use the portions which are 
injurious to me? ” 

The solicitor thought the matter over. 

“Mr. Redmond,” he replied, “you are clever man. I 
agree to your terms so far as this : If the information in 
the letter is of great value to my client, I will guarantee 
that the part affecting you shall not be used, providing I 
am not, by so doing, doing anything derogatory to my 
professional status.” 

“That is sufficient. I will bring the letter to your office 
this afternoon.” 

That afternoon the lost letter was in the solicitor’s 
possession. He did not read it ; he took it at once to the 
lady to whom it was addressed. 

With a trembling hand May Summers drew the letter of 
her dead husband from its enclosure and read it. 


DRAMAS OF LIFE. 


79 

This is the message Robert Howell had sent to his wife 
by George Carlyon : 

“May — When you read this I shall be dead. I had 
intended to come back to England and give myself up 
and face the result, but my courage failed me. I am a 
miserable coward — I have been a coward all my life. But 
before I die I want to make you all the reparation I can 
for the misery I have done you. When I married you I 
thought you were just the kind of woman who would make 
me a good wife, and help me in my fight with fortune. I 
wanted a good woman's society and companionship, for I 
had been burthened in my young manhood with a bad 
woman. She robbed me and left me when I was only 
twenty-two, and I never expected to see her again. One 
day Redmond, the man who was associated with me in 
a big mining scheme, which we were going to make a 
fortune out of, asked me to see a woman who had a hold 
on him, and bargain for some letters of his which she 
threatened to make use of — letters in which, with the 
madness of a man infatuated with a bad woman, he had 
betrayed himself. He had tried to dazzle her with visions 
of the wealth which was to be his when his “scheme" 
came off, and in this wealth she was to share. It was 
one of those letters which hundreds of better men than he 
have written to women who have enslaved them, but had 
it been made public it would not only have ruined him, 
but given our scheme its death-blow. It betrayed the 
dishonesty of the whole thing. 

“I arranged on his behalf to make her an offer. He 
wrote her a letter saying ‘his ambassador would call.’ 
When I arrived at the house she had gone to the Alhambra. 
I thought I might get her pointed out to me. It was most 
important I should see her that night. While I was walking 
about a woman passed me ; a woman, tall, beautiful, and 
elegantly dressed. Our eyes met — we both started. It 
was my wife ! 


8o 


DRAMAS OF LIFE. 


“ ‘Don't make a fuss here/ she said, recovering herself 
in a moment. ‘My brougham's outside, and I’m going 
home. I'm mad with the toothache ! ’ 

“I followed her, almost in a dream. We walked down 
to where her brougham was waiting. ‘ Home/ she said 
to the coachman. 

“‘Well, Bob/ she said, ‘we’ve met at last. You’ve 
forgotten the past — so have I. It’s a long time ago. 
Fancy my meeting you after all these years. I thought 
you were in America.’ 

“ ‘And I hoped that you were dead, and that we might 
never meet again,’ I said bitterly. 

“ ‘ Well, we have, and we’d better agree not to bother 
each other, eh, Bob ? Don’t be cross to me to-night, for 
my toothache’s driving me mad ! ’ 

“She drew from her pocket a bottle of chloroform, and 
put some drops into her tooth. 

“ ‘It’s the only thing that stops the pain,’ she said. 
Then she put the bottle back into her pocket. 

“The carriage at that moment gave a violent jerk. The 
coachman, in avoiding a cab, had run into a post at the 
corner of a narrow street. My wife was thrown violently 
against the side of the carriage. 

“I sat there like a man in a dream. I hadn’t known 
for certain that my wife was dead — I had hoped so. I 
had persuaded myself so, and I had married you, and 
there was I sitting by her side in her brougham. I had 
forgotten all about Redmond, all about Belle Fullerton. 

“Suddenly she exclaimed : 

“ ‘Bob, where can I see you to-morrow, and talk 
business? We may as well settle matters. I’ve just 
remembered it won’t do for you to come to my house to- 
night ; there’ll very likely be some one there.’ 

“ ‘Where is your house?’ I asked mechanically. 

“ She gave me the address. It was the address I had 
been to on behalf of Redmond. 


DRAMAS OF LIFE- 8 1 

“ * What name do you go by now ? ’ I asked, seizing 
her by the wrist. 

“ ‘Belle Fullerton/ she replied, quietly. 

“My exclamation of surprise evidently astonished her. 

“ ‘ What’s the matter ? ’ she asked. 

“Then the words bubbled from my lips. In my ex- 
citement I concealed nothing. I talked more to myself 
than to her. I was the ambassador. It was I — her hus- 
band — who was entrusted with the task of getting the 
damning letters from Redmond’s mistress. 

“My wife only laughed when she knew the truth, 
utterly callous, utterly heartless — it seemed to her a huge 
joke. 

“ ‘Well, Bob/ she said, ‘he couldn’t have chosen a 
better agent. We can make terms at once. I could have 
obtained money for these letters. If I give them to you, 
will you promise not to interfere with me ? ’ 

“ ‘ Have you the letters with you ?’ 

“ ‘ Yes. Redmond’s quite capable of bribing my ser- 
vant to get at them if I left them at home. He’s a clever 
man is Mr. Redmond, but I’m quite as clever.’ 

“ She gave a harsh little laugh, and took from a little 
ornamental bag she carried, a bundle of letters. 

“ ‘ There they are. Now is it a bargain ?’ 

“ ‘Give them to me ! ’ I cried. ‘ Fll settle with him for 
these. ’ 

“ I seized the letters ; she endeavored to keep them. 

“ ‘ No,’ she said ; ‘not till you agree to my terms.’ 

“It was a short struggle. I was wild, fierce. I was 
maddened that this woman, my wife, should be what she 
was ; that she should even dare to be alive. 

“ Suddenly she let go the letters. ‘ Oh ! ’ she cried. It 
must have been a fierce pang of pain in the nerve of the 
tooth. She put her hand in her pocket, drew out her 
handkerchief and put it to her face. Then she seemed to 
faint with the pain, and turning half round, let her head 


82 


DRAMAS OF LIFE . 


fall in the corner with her handkerchief still pressed 
against her face. 

“I had the letters. I was mad with rage, jealousy, I 
know not what. Stopping the carriage I jumped out, and 
said to the coachman, * Home/ 

“That night, late, I saw Redmond and gave him the 
letters. To quarrel with him would have been useless. 
To tell him that his mistress was my wife would have 
blistered my tongue. I told him nothing, except that cir- 
cumstances had happened which would prevent me 
remaining under his roof another hour. I fetched my 
portmanteau down and put it on the cab and drove away. 
I could not see you. I wanted to get away — to think 
over what I should do, and then write to you. 

“I slept that night at Charing Cross Hotel, the next 
morning I left by the mail and went abroad. I wanted 
to get away where there was life. Anywhere to think 
what I should do. And then I read in the English papers 
that Belle Fullerton had been found in her brougham 
dead. That a handkerchief saturated with chloroform 
had been found on the floor of the carriage, and that the 
man who was with her had jumped out of the brougham 
hastily, halfway to her house, and that I was the man. 

“I guessed at once that the bottle must have broken in 
her pocket with the jar of the collision which threw her 
up against the side of her carriage. I surmised she must 
have held the saturated handkerchief to her mouth, and 
that when she fainted the side of the carriage kept it 
fastened over her nostrils and mouth, and that this, with 
her weak heart, killed her. 

“ But the evidence against me was damning. She was 
my wife — I had married another woman — I had leapt out 
of the carriage — I had fled from England. 

“ I was a coward then, as I always have been. There 
was no witness of what really occurred — the evidence 
was enough to hang me. I felt the rope round my neck. 


DRAMAS OF LIRE. 


83 

“I left my hiding-place and made for Spain, then I 
went to Lisbon. From Lisbon I reached the Cape. Why 
need I weary you with my history. I prospered and no 
one recognized me in the wild parts I went to. By a 
lucky coup I made a fortune, but it was all no use to me. 

“Then I determined to come back to England and 
give myself up and tell the truth. Should I be believed ? 
No ! Then I should be hanged. May, I was a coward 
to the last. The very idea of landing in England drove 
me mad with fear. I shall give this letter — a letter writ- 
ten before I set sail — to the Captain, and then I shall end 
a life which has been a curse to myself and a curse to 
others. 

“The fortune I have made I leave to you. Don’t think 
too badly of me. I wronged you, but you were saved 
from ever being really my wife — and with my dying 
breath I swear to you that I was innocent of the death of 
the wretched woman who marred my youth and cursed 
my manhood — Belle Fullerton.” 

A year after the suicide’s letter was placed in the hands 
of May Summers, May Summers became Mrs. Carlyon. 
Of the fortune left her by Robert Howell she refused to 
accept one penny for herself; but when it was realized 
she made the amount over to the Benevolent Institutions 
of England which befriend poor governesses, women of 
refinement and education, often reduced to the last miser- 
ies and torments of destitution. 

And when Mrs. Redmond died and her wretched hus- 
band went to America for reasons which only transpired 
after his departure, May took the little girl whom she had 
grown to love as her own, and the one big wound in her 
heart was healed. 

Captain Carlyon is the happiest of men. He has aban- 
doned the sea, and the company have given him a splen- 
did berth on shore. Sometimes, when he talks over with 


84 


DRAMAS OF LIFE. 


Mr. Bates the events which brought him so much hap- 
piness, he says : 

“Bates, old fellow, you knew I was going to fall in 
love with May before I did myself ; but who would have 
imagined that the letter poor Howell gave me before he 
went to his death was a letter of introduction to my wife ! ” 


THAT WICKED GIRL. 


“That wicked gal,” Mrs. Perkins called her, and really 
according to Mrs. Perkins, Mary was desperately wicked 
and deceitful above all things. 

Mary didn’t look wicked. If ever there was a wolf in 
sheep’s clothing, always granting that Mrs. Perkins was 
right, and that she was a wolf, it was Mary. 

Mrs. Perkins was the proprietoress of that commodious 
and genteel looking double-fronted house which stands in 
the best position of the Marine Parade, Hastings, com- 
mands an excellent view of the sea, and can be thor- 
oughly recommended for its comfort and its cleanliness 
and moderate charges ; Mary is the housemaid, parlor- 
maid, nurse-maid, footman, light-porter and boots, all 
rolled into one. The only portion of the household duties 
of which Mary has not a considerable share is the 
cooking. 

Prospect Mansion — “Mansion” is quite giving the 
“House” and the “Villa” the go-by now-a-days — has a 
reputation of being much affected by the elite of seaside 
visitors. Mrs. Perkins is very particular indeed about 
her lodgers, if I may apply so vulgar a term to the good 
lady’s visitors, which is the word she generally uses her- 
self. She has had some wonderful people occupying her 
rooms at different times ; and having a reputation for 
taking “somebodies” she is not going to give it away by 
taking “anybodies.” 

Mrs. Perkins’ drawing-room floor was once occupied 
for a whole fortnight by a widow lady, whose brother 


86 


DRAMAS OF LIFE . 


was a lord, and a relation of a member of the Govern- 
ment, and the day that the lord called upon the widow, 
and when Mary — of course “the wicked gal” had a dirty 
apron on, and had put the blacklead brush wrong side up 
across her face when wiping a bottle-fly from her brow 
with the back of her hand — when Mary, with dirty apron 
and blackleaded face, said, “what name, please, sir?” 
and the gentleman replied, “Lord St. Jones,” Mrs. Per- 
kins, who was coming upstairs with her apron full of 
cauliflowers to show the lady in the dining-room, dropped 
the lot in her confusion mingled with pride, and tearing 
her apron off, rushed to the door and exclaimed with a 
profusion of apologies, “This way, my lord, allow me to 
show your lordship.” 

His lordship was a short, thin little man in baggy black 
trousers, and a tall hat that had turned brown with expos- 
ure to the weather, and he snorted and grunted a good 

deal while getting up the stairs and said “ ” when he 

nearly broke his leg by falling over a dust-pan with the 
broom and the dust in it, which “that wicked gal ” — just 
as if she’d done it on purpose, my dear — had left on the 
top stair, but he was a lord, and the old lady whom he had 
come to see was his sister, and a lord’s sister was in Mrs. 
Perkins’ drawing-room, which was an honor and a never- 
to-be-forgotten glory to Prospect Mansion, and all that 
appertained thereto. 

The lord’s sister was the only approach to “the titled 
aristocracy” who had honored Prospect Mansion with 
their patronage, but there were many “good families,” 
including one stout lady with a very red face, who 
brought her own carriage with her — a yellow chariot, 
with red wheels, which was the envy of all the other 
householders in the terrace. 

Mrs. Perkins never failed to feast her eyes upon that 
yellow chariot when it stood at her door. It showed the 
quality of the visitors who selected Prospect Mansion for 


DRAMAS OF LIFE. 


8 / 

their temporary abode. It was true that the horse was 
rather thin, and stood with his front legs at such an angle 
that his front feet very nearly touched his hind feet, but 
that didn’t take the yellow from the chariot, or the red 
from the wheels. 

Mrs. Perkins had also among her regular clients many 
clerical families, and there is always something intensely 
respectable about the female relatives of the clergy. 
When clergymen’s wives or widows take one floor in 
your house it really doesn’t matter who has the other 
apartments. A bishop’s wife in the drawing-room would 
neutralize even a young foreign lady with golden hair 
who smoked cigarettes in the dining-room. 

There was a Mr. Perkins at Prospect Mansion, but he 
didn’t matter much. Nobody ever paid the slightest 
attention to him, except when he was in the way down- 
stairs, which he generally was. Mr. Perkins was a mel- 
ancholy thin man of about forty-five. He was supposed 
to be in delicate health, which prevented him following 
any business. His one occupation in life was obliterat- 
ing himself in his own house, and keeping the child quiet. 
The child was a little girl of six who was always with 
Mrs. Perkins when she was good, and always with Mr. 
Perkins when she was naughty, or when Mrs. Perkins 
had one of her bad headaches — a state of affairs by no 
means uncommon. 

Very humble, very subdued, Mr. Perkins endeavored 
as far as possible to be invisible. He was afraid of every- 
body in the house. 

Except Mary. 

Even Mr. Perkins, who allowed himself to be crushed 
by the cook, and would step aside to allow the boy who 
came in for an hour of a morning to do the boots to pass, 
plucked up spirit enough to agree that Mary was “a 
wicked gal.” 

Mr. Perkins had in early life been in service. It was 


88 


DRAMAS OF LIFE. 


popularly rumored that he had been a coachman, or an 
under-gardener or something that necessitated a good 
deal of hat-touching, for this was a habit he could not 
break himself of — he never met any of his wife’s lodgers 
— or shall we say “visitors?” — when he was out, but up 
went his forefinger to the brim of his hat, and when he 
had no hat on, and he met them indoors, in the passage 
or on the stairs, which was not often, up went his finger 
to the one lock of hair that still lingered, a silent witness 
of what had been, on his bald and shiny brow. 

In addition to Mary and Mrs. Perkins and Mr. Perkins, 
and the little girl, the family contained an Irish cook of 
fiery temper and voluble utterance. ‘ ‘ An excellent cook, ’’ 
said Mrs. Perkins, “an indefatigable worker — but really, 
at times, too violent in her language to the tradespeople. ” 
Mrs. Perkins confessed that the butcher boy was a fiend to 
stop and assist in every street fight of a morning, instead 
of bringing the meat in time for the middle day meals of 
her visitors, but it was most unfortunate that the bishop’s 
lady should have had her window wide open just at the 
time that cook was informing “the fiend” in the strong- 
est words of her vocabulary that he was a murtherin’ 
blackguard, an'd calling upon the Saints to do him dire 
and bloodthirsty mischief. 

It was in this delightful household that Mary Jones en- 
deavored conscientiously to do her duty. She was a mild, 
amiable girl, who, after living a life of lodging-house 
slaveydom from the age of 12 to the age of 25, had come 
to the conclusion that what everybody said was right, and 
that she must be awfully stupid and awfully wicked. 
Like Topsey, she guessed that she was born so, for she 
tried her hardest to be good and to please, but somehow 
or other the fates were against her. 

On the 17th of September, 1882, a day never to be for- 
gotten in the life annals of Mary Jones, “the wicked 
gal” had been exceptionally wicked — all day long the 


DRAMAS OF LIFE. 


89 

lower regions had echoed with cries of ‘‘Mary, you 
wicked gal, you’ve been and upset the gravy on the stair 
carpet.” “Mary, you wicked gal, do you know that 
you’ve left your dust-pan on the drawing-room sofa?” 
“Mary, shure, its a saint from heaven that ye’d be ag- 
gravatin’, and it’s the misthress that ye’re murtherin’ with 
ye’re wicked ways, and she as she is too.” This was a 
delicate allusion on the part of the Irish Cook before missus 
to missus’s health, and the approaching advent of another 
little Perkins. 

Poor Mary had gone hot and cold, and trembled as her 
various delinquencies were pointed out to her. She had 
wept and sniffed, and declared more than once that she 
would go and “drownd” herself in the conveniently 
situated sea ; but for all that she had gone on with her 
work until she was dead beat, and, as she expressed it, 
“felt regularly sinking and all over alike.” 

The evening wound up with a little dispute between 
Cook and Mary, in which Cook loudly expressed her as- 
tonishment that Mary wasn’t afraid of being struck dead 
for telling lies ; and then, as was her custom, Mrs. Perkins 
assembled her husband and domestics for family prayer, 
and prayed a long prayer at Mary with incidental minor 
prayers dropped in promiscuously for Mr. Perkins, who 
had declined to go out and send the niggers away because 
the little boys jeered him, a course of conduct which had 
induced the Cook to say that it would be a mercy if the 
expected little Perkins wasn’t born black. 

Prayers over, Mrs. Perkins retired to rest, Mr. Perkins 
went out in the back yard for his evening pipe, cook 
locked up the larder, and Mary having made everything 
ready for the morning, toiled wearily up to her attic, and 
utterly worn out threw herself on the bed undressed, and 
fell fast asleep. 

Cook slept in the basement, and Mary occupied this 
little attic all by herself, so there was no one to call her a 
wicked girl for this disorderly proceeding. 


9 o 


DRAMAS OF LIFE . 


How long Mary had been asleep she didn't know, but 
she woke with a sudden start, and sitting up on the bed, 
began to rub her eyes and wonder where she was. Some- 
body was knocking at the door. 

“Yes," exclaimed Mary, jumping up, “what is it?” 
“Open the door," exclaimed Cook's voice, “sure it's 
missus as is took bad, and ye’re to go for the doctor at 
once. Masther won't lave the misthress, she won’t let 
him." 

Mary was fortunately dressed, and was downstairs, and 
had her bonnet and shawl on in a minute. She thought 
master might have gone at such hour of the night, but she 
thought it would be wicked to say so, so off she sped 
towards the doctor’s. 

The doctor’s house was in darkness. She felt very 
nervous about ringing him up, but she supposed doctors 
didn’t mind, so she gave a gentle pull at the bell which, to 
her horror, clanged through the house. A window opened 
above and a head appeared, and the voice belonging to 
the head asked what was the matter. 

“Please, sir, will you come to missus, she’s took bad." 

“And who is your missus?" 

“Mrs. Perkins, sir, No. , Marine Parade." 

“All right, I’ll be there directly." 

Bang went the window down, and Mary delighted to 
think that she hadn’t made any mistake, or been abused 
for knocking a gentleman up in the middle of the night, 
came down off the doorsteps and made the best of her way 
towards home. 

When she got there she put her hand in her pocket for 
the key which she had brought with her, and to her horror 
failed to find it. 

She turned everything out of her pocket again and again ; 
she grew hot and cold. 

The key was gone ! 

She must have dropped it somewhere in the road. 


DRAMAS OF LIFE . 


91 

What should she do ? Knock at the door and explain that 
she had lost the key. No, she daren’t do that. It would 
upset the missus if she heard of it. Missus was awfully 
nervous of burglars, and at such a time as the present she 
mustn't be upset. 

She must walk back the way she had come, and look 
for the key. There was no one about ; the chances were 
that she would find it. If she left it till the morning some- 
one would find it, perhaps a bad character, and come and 
let himself in when nobody was about, and walk off with 
the great coats and the umbrellas, perhaps with the tea- 
pots and the knives and forks. 

So poor Mary, feeling more wicked than she had ever 
felt in her life, went back the way she had come, peering 
along the pavement, looking into the road, searching 
everywhere for the lost latchkey. 

On the way she met the doctor. He was walking 
rapidly. Mary slipped aside, so that he should not notice 
her. He would get to the house first. They would 
wonder where she was. They would be sure to want her 
for something. If there was any work to be done, she 
was sure to be wanted. Whatever would they think had 
become of her? 

Still, she must find the key. Her life would be a burden 
to her if she didn't. Cook was as nervous as missus — no 
one would go to sleep in the house if that latchkey was 
lying about Hastings. 

It never occurred to the worried and badgered young 
woman that the lock could be altered. All she thought 
of was that she had committed another act of outrageous 
wickedness, and lost the key of the house. 

She walked on rapidly, stopping to look at everything 
that gleamed or glistened in the moonlight. She picked 
up a hairpin, an old nail, and a pair of rusty scissors, but 
the latchkey was nowhere to be seen. 

She reached the doctor’s house, and then her heart gave 
a sudden bound for joy. 


92 


DRAMAS OF LIFE . 


There, lying on the side of the step, was the latchkey. 

She remembered pulling her handkerchief out while she 
was waiting for the bell to be answered. She must have 
dropped the key then. 

She seized it eagerly, she felt inclined to kiss it and cry 
over it, but she mastered her emotion, and, clutching it 
firmly in her hand, was preparing to take to her heels 
and run as hard as she could when the doctors front door 
opened and a ghost came out ! 

Yes, a ghost ! 

Mary was too horrified to faint — too paralyzed to 
shriek. 

A long, tall figure dressed in white came gliding out of 
the door and passed quite close to her. 

Mary shrank back against the wall and held her breath. 
But as the figure passed her she saw that the ghost had 
a human face — a beautiful face — the face of a young 
woman. 

It glided on, across the road, and went slowly towards 
the parade. 

Then Mary suddenly recognized the fact that it was not 
a ghost. 

It was a young woman dressed in white. 

But what on earth could a young lady be going on to 
the Parade for at two o’clock in the morning. 

The figure reached the Parade, then stepped on to the 
beach, and went slowly down to the sea. 

What was the strange young lady going to do? Mary’s 
heart stood still. 

The young woman had reached the edge of the waves 
— they were rolling up and wetting her feet. 

Great Heavens, the young woman was walking on ! — 
walking into the sea. She would be drowned. 

Mary could never think how the sudden courage came, 
or what put it into her head to do what she did, instead 
of shrieking. 


DRAMAS OF LIFE . 


93 

But a sudden strength seemed to take possession of her 
limbs — a nervous energy surged up in her brain. 

With a little cry she ran forward and darted across the 
beach after the young woman. 

She was too late. 

The young woman was in the sea, the waters were 
closing over her. 

None of us know how we should act in such a desperate 
moment. Mary never thought of the danger to herself, 
of the lonely shore and the wide ocean, and only the stars 
looked down upon that death-struggle. 

She only saw that a woman was drowning, and she 
rushed in after her, rushed in madly, and just as a wave 
of the incoming tide carried a floating form nearer her — 
she seized the suicide by the dress and shouted for help 
and dragged with all her might, struggling fiercely to 
keep her own feet to the ground, and her own head above 
the waves. 

It all seemed the work of a moment, and then she was 
on the shore — one desperate tug, and she and the suicide 
lay together side by side on the beach. 

She heard the sound of voices — she saw two men lean- 
ing over her, she heard a shout, and she knew no more 
until she opened her eyes and found herself in a strange 
room. 

“ Where am I ? ” she said. 

A kind voice answered her, “ You are all right/' 

She looked up and recognized the doctor she had been 
to fetch on the previous night to missus. 

“Oh, dear,” she said, “however did I come here? 
Let me go home, they’ll be wondering what’s become of 
me. ” 

Then she remembered something of what had happened. 
“ The young lady,” she said, “ was she drowned? ” 

“No!” said the doctor, “you saved her, but you 
mustn’t talk any more yet awhile. You shall know all 
about it presently. ” 


94 


DRAMAS OF LIFE . 


“ How’s missus ! ” 

“As well as can be expected, and so’s the baby.” 

“That’s all right,” said Mary, with a deep sigh, and 
then the “ wicked girl ” closed her eyes and dropped off 
to sleep again. 

When Mary had quite recovered from the excitement 
and terror of her night’s adventure and was able to get 
up, the doctor told her all about it. 

The young lady she had seen coming out of his house 
was a young lady patient who had been staying with 
him and his wife for the benefit of her health. She had 
had a love disappointment and had given way to melan- 
cholia. 

No serious consequences were anticipated, but it was 
thought advisable that she should be under the constant 
supervision of a medical man, so she had been sent down 
with a trained nurse to the doctor’s house by her father, 
who was a distant relative of the doctor. 

The young lady had grown gradually worse, but she 
had done nothing which would lead to a belief that she 
contemplated suicide. 

The nurse had however been told to watch her care- 
fully, and had done so. 

The night that the doctor was called out the young lady 
was awakened by the ringing of the bell. The nurse, 
who had been suffering from neuralgia, had foolishly 
taken an opiate to make her sleep, and the young lady, 
finding herself un watched, probably made up her mind 
to escape from those she considered to be her gaolers. 

She must have opened the door and crept downstairs 
noiselessly in her nightdress, and walked out into the 
street. 

Then she saw the sea, and the idea of suicide came 
into her poor wandering mind. 

But for Mary’s lost latchkey having brought her back 


DRAMAS OF LIFE. 


95 


to the spot, the young lady’s body would probably have 
been found the next day on the beach, or perhaps picked 
up at sea. 

When Mary got back to Prospect Mansion, missus, of. 
course, was upstairs in bed, but cook received her and 
tossed her head, and said it was a nice thing for respect- 
able servant gals to go a-roaming the street at night, and 
jumping into the sea, and she never heard of such things. 

She wanted to call Mary a (l wicked gal,” but she didn’t 
quite see how to do it. 

Mr. Perkins seemed very much upset, and looked more 
scared and dazed than usual. The affair had made a great 
deal of commotion in Hastings, and people called at the 
house to make inquiries about it. It had got into the 
papers, too, and this Mr. Perkins, on his wife’s behalf re- 
sented. Mrs. Perkins wasn’t quite sure how her “ visitors ” 
would take it. She said it was just like having a murder 
committed in the house. It made everybody look up and 
point to her windows, and she was sure there wasacrowd 
hanging about outside, and if there was, her drawing-rooms 
would give notice and her dining-rooms would leave. 

But none of these things happened. As soon as the visitors 
in the house heard the story, they all developed a sudden 
desire to be waited upon by the brave young woman, and 
they kept her talking and telling them about it over and 
over again, till cook declared she would give notice, 
for if that “wicked gal,” Mary, stopped chattering and 
scandal-mongertng all day long, how was the work to be 
done, with Missus ill and master a-wandering about the 
place and getting in the way as though he’d been brought 
ashore drowned himself. 

Cook hadn’t a logical way of putting her ideas together, 
but she made up for the lack of quality by the supera- 
bundance of quantity. 

Mary went about her work as though nothing had hap- 


DRAMAS OF LIFE. 


96 

pened, simply grateful that she hadn’t been discharged 
for her carelessness in losing the latch-key, and her wick- 
edness in rescuing young women from the ocean instead 
of hurrying home to wait on her missus. 

But instead of being punished for her wickedness she 
was rewarded. A few days after she .had resumed her 
domestic duties, and just as she was settling into her old 
wicked habits of leaving the bucket on the stairs, and the 
dust-pan on the drawing-room sofa, and answering the 
front door with a dirty apron on, and slopping the gravy 
from the joint on the stair carpet, the doctor arrived with 
an old gentleman, and requested to see Mary Jones. 

Mary came up into the hall, cook listened at the top of 
the kitchen stairs, the missus had the bedroom door set 
wide open to catch what she could, and master hung so 
far over the bannisters on the drawing-room floor, that he 
was in imminent danger once or twice of falling bodily 
into the hall below. 

And this is what they all heard. The old gentleman 
was the father of the young lady. To show his gratitude 
for Mary Jones’ bravery in plunging into the sea to save 
the life of his unfortunate daughter, he had come to make 
her an advantageous offer. 

He would pay into a bank for her a sum of money 
sufficient to enable her to start in any little business she 
chose, or if she was engagedto be married, he would start 
her and her husband in a nice little lodging-house, or any 
business they might wish to buy. 

Was Mary engaged ? 

Mary blushed ! 

She wasn’t exactly engaged, but she walked out when 
she had a Sunday off, which wasn’t often in the season, 
with the baker’s young man, and some day they had 
thought of getting married. 

“The baker’s young man — well, I never ! ” exclaimed 
cook on the top of the kitchen stairs. 


DRAMAS OF LIFE. 


97 


“That accounts for her being so long taking the bread 
in,” growled Mrs. Perkins, as she gripped the curtains of 
her bed, and sat upright to hear more. 

“Very well, my girl,” replied the old gentleman. “I 
leave the rest in my friend the doctor’s hands. You 
understand that anything in reason I can do for you, 
I will. 

A month afterwards “ that wicked girl” married the 
baker’s young man, and the young lady’s father took and 
furnished for them a charming little house in Hastings, 
where they have made an excellent beginning. 

And they have had a magnificent advertisement to start 
with, for on her wedding day the Mayor of Hastings 
publicly presented tbe blushing bride with the Royal 
Humane Society’s medal, and she became quite a local 
celebrity, and everybody recommends her apartments. 

She has developed into quite a smart little landlady, and 
the baker’s young man has turned out a model husband 
and very handy in the house; and Mrs. Perkins never 
wheels her new baby past their house without noticing 
that there are no cards in the window, and she shrugs her 
shoulders and says to her mild and still slightly dazed Mr. 
Perkins, “Some people are lucky — her husband isn’t a 
fool — her rooms are never empty, but then she owes it all 
to me, for she’d never have been where she is if she hadn’t 
gone and lost the latchkey in the middle of the night ; 
and fancy her carrying on all that time with the baker’s 
young man, and nobody knowing of it. Ugh I the wicked 
gal!” 


7 


WHY HE WAS HANGED. 


My first meeting with Paul Narovski was purely acci- 
dental. 

I was anxious to make some inquiries into the condi- 
tion of the foreign Jews, who were coming over to Eng- 
land and settling in the East End of London, as the white 
slaves of men who were said to be terrible taskmasters. 

I had often thought that the subject must one day force 
itself to the front, and I had an idea that it was quite possi- 
ble that a diligent explorer migh discover in the East End 
of London a state of things the true meaning of which the 
British public had as yet failed to grasp. 

I knew that from various parts of Russia, Poland, Aus- 
tria and Germany poor Jews, many of them almost in a 
starving condition, were pouring over to this country, 
tempted by the wild tales which prevailed in their native 
towns and villages of the wealth that there was for the 
workers in the great City of the Golden Pavement. 

To the toilers of some continental districts even the 
wage paid by the London Sweater sounded like a dream 
of wealth, compared with the miserable price their labor 
commanded at home. It was something to think of long- 
ingly. 

The story of the foreign sweater, and the foreign hands 
who poured into the Metropolis to be sweated by him, is 
ancient history now. It has come to the front, it has had 
its boom, and it will pass presently into the great grave- 
yard of the dead and gone nine days’ wonder. 

But at the time of which I speak, a few years ago, 
all was vague and uncertain. Rumors of an East End 


DRAMAS OF LIFE. 


99 


Inferno, in which the living endured the tortures of the 
damned, floated now and again through Temple Bar and 
startled the West, but they were dismissed after a little 
discussion as gross exaggerations. 

In those days, it was my custom to patronize a little 
West End barber, an Austrian, whose assistants were 
principally Poles — Barber’s Poles, I might say, if the story 
I am about to tell was not too tragic to admit even of a 
jesting word. 

The little fellow who generally attended to me was an 
excellent linguist He spoke French and German fluently, 
and he was rapidly acquiring English. A very intelligent 
young fellow, too, and, like most barber’s assistants, 
always ready to gossip. 

One day, in the course of conversation, I mentioned 
my desire to know a little more concerning the Polish Jews 
of the East End. I asked him if he had heard anything 
in the district he came from of the glowing stories which 
tempted his countrymen to flock over here to swell our 
already-gorged labor market. 

No — he knew very little. His business was a different 
one. As a clever barber, he had no difficulty in getting 
a situation either in Germany or France, or in England. 
He had been travelling from country to country, from 
town to town, ever since he was a little boy, and he had 
always been able to earn a fair wage. But he knew that 
the poor fellows who came here as tailors and bootmakers, 
and that sort of thing, had a bad time of it. They lived 
like dogs, “ and yet,” he added, with a little sigh, “ even 
then they live better than some of them could at home. 
Tiens ! ” There was a young man he knew who could 
tell me something, perhaps— a young man who had come 
from his (the young barber’s) village, and was working 
at the tailoring in Whitechapel now. He met him some- 
times when he went to a friend s house at the East End, 
where they played cards on Sunday. If I wished, he 


IOO 


DRAMAS OF LIFE . 


would next Sunday make enquiries about his friend, and 
arrange that I should see him. 

I went out of town on the following day, and it was a 
fortnight before I saw my little Polish barber again. Di- 
rectly I entered the shop, and had taken my seat in front 
of the big looking-glass to be lathered, the young Pole 
came to me smiling all over his face. 

“I have seen my friend from my native village,” he 
said, “and I have his address now. He will tell you all 
you want to know any Sunday that you like. He will 
come to your house, if you wish it.” 

I thanked the little barber, and made an appointment 
for his countryman. On the following Sunday a short 
thin, pale-faced young Pole was shown into my study. 

The servant announced him as Mr. Narrowskin, or some- 
thing of the sort, but he soon informed me that his name 
was Paul Narovski, and that he had come in consequence 
of a communication that had been made to him by his 
compatriot at the barber's shop. 

Into the details of our conversation it is not necessary 
here to enter — what he said to me had nothing to do with 
the events which followed his visit, and which I am about 
to narrate. 

He struck me as a remarkably intelligent young fellow 
though our conversation was conducted with some diffi- 
culty, as I did not understand “ Yiddish,” which is the 
everyday language of his class, and he could not speak 
either French or German, and his English vocabulary was 
too limited to allow him to go very fully into the details I 
was anxious to master. 

I succeeded, however, in getting from him a few hints 
which would be valuable to me when I went more 
thoroughly into a study of the great Sweating question, 
and he furnished me with some names and addresses, 
which, he said, would be useful to me if I ever seriously 
took up the subject of pauper immigration to the East 
End. 


DRAMAS OF LIFE. 


IOI 


When he left I gave him some cigars and a more sub- 
stantial present, which I had some difficulty in inducing 
him to accept, and I entered his name and address in my 
note book “for future reference.” 

That future reference never came. Something else 
cropped up to occupy my attention, and all my spare 
time, and for six months I thought no more of Paul 
Narovski. The little Polish barber left his situation to take 
a better one in another neighborhood, and so there was 
nothing to call him to my mind or to cause me to men- 
tion his name. 

But six months after our first and only interview, Paul 
Narovski’s name was on everybody’s tongue. 

A murder had been committed under exceptionally 
extraordinary circumstances. 

A young Polish Jewess, a married woman, had been 
found murdered in her bedroom between nine and ten in 
the morning. When the deed was discovered, the horri- 
fied people who had burst the door open and rushed in 
on hearing the alarm, found concealed beneath her bed a 
man in a fainting condition. 

On being dragged out and examined it was found that 
he had been stabbed, but not mortally. A long knife, 
the weapon with which the deed had been accomplished, 
was lying on the floor under the bed. 

The wounded man found beneath the murdered woman’s 
bed was Paul Narovski. 

The case, when the details were published in the early 
editions of the evening newspapers, created an enormous 
amount of interest. There were several novel elements 
in it. The young woman was very beautiful, and it was 
at first supposed that the motive of the crime was jeal- 
ousy or passion. The statement of Paul Narovski, the 
statement he stammered out as soon as he came to his 
senses, was that he had gone to the room (he lodged and 
worked in the lower part of the house which was occu- 


102 


DRAMAS OF LIFE. 


pied by a sweater), because he heard a cry for help. On 
entering the room he was horrified to see a man standing 
over the woman as she lay upon the bed. Before he 
could cry out the man seized him by the throat and 
attacked him. In the struggle he fell. As he fell he 
received a stab in the breast from the knife which the 
murderer still held in his hand, and he must have crawled 
under the bed and fainted from loss of blood. He knew 
no more until he was dragged out and found himself in 
the presence of a crowd of his fellow-lodgers and 
neighbors. 

Pressed for further particulars he said he could give 
none ; he did not recognize the man, and he supposed 
the reason the man didn’t finish him off was that he 
heard some one coming and made his escape. 

It was rather a lame story — so lame that Paul Narovski 
was arrested on the charge of murdering Esther Jaka- 
bowski, tailoress, wife of Isaac Jakabowski, tailor. The 
theory of the police was that he had cherished a secret 
amour for the woman — that he had murdered her in a 
moment of rage because she refused to countenance his 
suit, and that immediately afterwards he had either 
attempted to commit suicide or had stabbed himself in 
order to give color to the extraordinary statement by 
means of which he hoped to account for his presence in 
the murdered woman’s room. 

I was startled when I read the story. To know a 
murderer — to have shaken hands with an assassin — is not 
an every-day experience. I tried to recall the young man’s 
appearance and manner, and to make up my mind 
whether he looked like a man who could commit such 
a crime or not. 

I couldn’t bring myself to accept Narovski’s defence — 
from what little I had seen of him I couldn’t think he 
was a pitiful coward. The crawling under the bed was 
what I failed to understand. If he had been found lying 


DRAMAS OF LIFE . 


103 

on the floor with the marks of a desperate fight for life 
about the room his defence would have been more 
plausible. 

The general opinion, as the facts of the case and the an- 
tecedent events which led up to the tragedy were slowly 
unravelled, was that Narovski was guilty. He had mur- 
dered the woman and stabbed himself to save his neck. 
The wound turned out to be a very slight one, the half- 
hearted sort of a stab which a man might give himself who 
was anxious not to injure himself mortally. No trace of 
the mysterious “man” could be discovered, no one was 
known to the woman’s husband or friends who would be 
likely to want to kill her. The motive was not robbery, 
for the poor Jewess had nothing but her beauty to tempt 
an assailant. Moreover, she was an exceedingly well- 
conducted, quiet little woman, and the bare idea of a 
paramour was scouted by the neighbors who knew her, 
and among whom she had lived for over two years. 

Narovski, however, persisted in his statement, and at 
last one or two members of the get-a-murderer-off-at-any- 
price-society began to take his case up and to put forward 
theories, more or less ingenious, in the newspapers to 
account for the circumstantial evidence against him. 

When the trial came on, however, the theory of the 
prosecution had by far the best of it, and the theory of the 
defence was felt to be woefully weak by the side of it. 

It was proved that the knife had been seen in Narovski’s 
possession previously. It was proved that on one or 
two occasions when Esther Jakabowski went out of her 
street at night Narovski had been seen to follow her. A 
witness from the West End came forward who proved 
that on one occasion he saw Esther Jakabowski at the 
West End of London. He was a Polish Jew in the same 
trade and knew her. He exchanged a few remarks with 
her, and a few moments afterwards he met Narovski, 
who simply passed him with a nod. The circumstances 


104 


DRAMAS OF LIFE. 


never struck him as peculiar until he read of the murder, 
and the theory that it was jealousy, or mad passion, which 
had prompted the deed. The witness was certain that 
Esther did not know that Narovski was following her, 
and Narovski was evidently annoyed at being recognized. 
This evidence, of course, was only valuable as far as it 
went But it fitted in admirably with the theory of the 
prosecution. The evidence that the knife had been seen 
in Narovski's possession was established beyond a doubt ; 
he had been found in the murdered woman’s room with 
the door locked on the inside , and all inquiries failed to 
elicit the slightest evidence as to anyone having seen the 
mysterious man to whom the prisoner attributed the 
crime. 

The evidence as to the door having been locked on the 
inside came before the public for the first time at the 
trial. The newspapers had not noted it. In the con- 
fusion the people who rushed in were, some of them, 
not sure if the door was locked or not. But an expert 
examination had proved that it was, and the broken 
fastenings were exhibited to the jury. 

After a long and patient trial the judge summed up, 

, and the jury after a short deliberation returned a verdict 
of guilty. 

The judge, in passing sentence of death, informed the 
convicted man that he was not to buoy himself up with 
any false hopes, but to prepare himself for the punishment 
which in this country is the expiation for the deed of 
which he had been found guilty. 

After the trial the excitement abated, and most people 
considered that, whatever mystery might still surround 
the motive, the crime had been clearly traced to its author. 

One or two people, however, still held out. notably the 
editor of an evening journal, who tried the whole case 
over again in his columns, and was perpetually producing 
a little piece of evidence more or less in favor of the 


DRAMAS OF LIFE. 


105 


theory, that Narovski was after all the victim of strong 
circumstantial evidence. Special artists were engaged 
to draw the room, people were interviewed who had 
known Narovski, and gave him an excellent character, 
and the paper in question produced day after day that 
mass of hearsay and unknown testimony which never 
fails to crop up around a trial for murder. 

Three days before the one appointed for Narovski’s 
execution, this journal came out with a startling headline 
on its bills : “Shall an innocent man be hanged?” and 
in its pages it argued with frenzied earnestness in favor 
of a reprieve. Most important testimony was to be 
forthcoming from someone — a fresh piece of evidence had 
been obtained — a little girl had been found who had seen 
a man on the stairs on the morning of the murder, 
etc., etc. 

And on the very afternoon that the editor of this journal, 
to strengthen his frenzied efforts, declared that he would 
risk his life upon Narovski’s innocence — a late edition of 
his own paper had to insert the startling intelligence that 
Narovski had confessed his guilt to the prison authorities, 
and that his confession had been forwarded to the Home 
Secretary. 

It was a terrible — a humiliating collapse — but there was 
nothing more to be done, nothing more to be said, and 
three days afterwards, on the appointed day, and at the 
appointed hour, Paul Narovski, who some nine months 
previously had sat with me in my study and discussed 
the condition of his fellow-countrymen, was hanged by 
the neck for the murder of Esther Jakabowski. 

And Paul Narovski was innocent of the crime. 

And yet he confessed to it himself at the last moment. 

True, but he never murdered Esther Jakabowski, his 
hand never struck the blow that killed her. 

Was the story that he told when he was arrested true 
then ? No, he never told the truth. He told a lie when 


I0 6 DRAMAS OF LIFE. 

first the crime was discovered — and he died with a lie 
upon his lips. He knew the murderer, knew him by 
name, and he could have told the police where to lay 
their hands upon him at any time, but he held his peace. 

If I knew this why did I not come forward to save 
him, the reader may naturally ask. 

I did not know it then. I came at last, after, reading the 
evidence, to be fully convinced of Narovski’s guilt. I 
never knew he was innocent until months after the man 
was in his felon’s grave, and then I was not sure enough 
to speak. Even now that I am going to tell you the 
strange story of a London crime, word for word as it has 
come to me since, I cannot prove that it was true. I can 
only tell you what I have learned, and leave you to com- 
pare it with the facts adduced at the trial, and then to form 
your own conclusion. 

But I believe you will come to the same conclusion 
that I did — that Paul Narovski was hanged for a murder 
which another man committed. 

I cannot even tell you where I obtained my informa- 
tion. It came to me from a man who may have lied. 
He was a Pole, he had been among these people, was 
living among them at the time of the crime. Hear his 
story and judge it for yourselves. 

There exists in the East End of London, among these 
Polish immigrants, a political society, a vast number of 
men, some of them rich, most of them poor, who have 
banded themselves together to accomplish a great scheme 
of vengeance against those whom they consider the op- 
pressors of their land, the cause of their misery, and the 
authors of that state of things which compels thousands 
of them to leave their native land to seek for the bare 
necessaries of life. In a land like ours the motives, the 
fierce energy, the lifelong steadfastness of purpose of these 
men are difficult to understand. In Russia and Poland 
these things are understood only too well. 


DRAMAS OF LIFE. 


107 

Paul Narovski was a member of one of these societies. 
He had taken its vows, he had devoted his life to its ob- 
jects. He worked that he might live, he lived as thou- 
sands of these poor exiles do, sustained by the one idea, 
that some day they would strike a blow at tyranny and 
take their revenge for years of bitter wrong. 

Esther Jakabowski was a member of another society, 
as mysterious in its ways, as vast in its ramifications. 
She was a member of that society which has its agents 
amongst the poorest daughters and amongst the richest 
butterflies of fashion, amongst the foreigners in every 
capital abroad, among the natives of every capital at 
home. She was in the pay of the Russian police, or 
rather she was suspected of being so. 

One day this woman, who had been followed and 
watched by members of the society in London, was de- 
nounced at a meeting and condemned to death. The or- 
der for her execution was given to Paul Narovski, the 
man who lodged in the same house, knew her habits, and 
would be able to choose the most convenient opportunity. 

When vengeance of this kind is to be executed, it is 
usual to tell off two conspirators — one to do the deed, the 
other to see that he does it. If the first man should fail, 
it is the duty of the second to take up the task. 

When Paul Narovski entered the room where the sleep- 
ing woman lay he had chosen his moment well. The 
husband was absent ; the woman had gone to lie down — 
there was no one about. 

He entered the room and, creeping up to the bedside, 
drew his knife. Then he hesitated. Something in the 
sleeping woman’s face appealed to his pity — perhaps 
(who knows ?) the story that he had nourished a deep 
feeling of love for the woman was true. At any rate, he 
hesitated, and crying, “ No, I cannot do it,” dropped the 
knife. 

It was picked up instantly by a man who stood behind 


I0 8 dramas of life. 

him. “ Traitor,” the shadower of the assassin hissed in 
his ears, as he plunged the weapon into the sleeping 
woman’s heart. 

Involuntarily Paul Narovski uttered a cry of horror. 
The man turned upon him and seized him by the throat. 
At that moment a footstep was heard. It was a false 
alarm, but the man, uttering a few words of dread import 
to Narovski, crept noiselessly from the room. 

Narovski’s first impulse was to lock the door. His 
brain reeled — he was half mad with terror and horror. 
He locked the door to lock the assassin out in case he 
should return to finish his bloody work. Esther might 
still be alive — there might be hope. Trembling in every 
limb, he bent over the body, placed his ear to the heart, 
and so covered himself with blood. 

Esther Jakabowski was dead. 

Another man had done the awful deed entrusted to 
him. 

He knew his fate now. 

If he denounced the assassin there would be a thou- 
sand hands raised against him, each one ready to strike. 

Utterly beside himself with grief and despair, the un- 
happy Pole plunged the knife into his own breast, think- 
ing death the only alternative, and it is probable that in 
his agony of mind and body he rolled beneath the bed. 

You know the rest. He persisted in his innocence, but 
gave the authorities no clue to the real assassin. He 
dared not. 

By some means he was made to learn, even in his 
prison cell, that it would be better for him to confess now 
and shield the secret society. He could only escape by 
denouncing the real assassin, and the penalty for the 
traitor was death — death which was bound to come in 
whatever quarter of the world he sought refuge. 

If he died now, he expiated his failure to carry out the 
decree of the Brotherhood. If he let the law take its course, 


DRAMAS OF LIFE. 


109 

and stopped all further inquiry by a confession, he knew 
that his people — his poor old father and mother far away 
in their native land — would be helped and cared for by 
the society. 

If he did not, if he imperilled the sacred secret entrusted 
to him, by keeping the inquiry open, then vengeance 
would fall even upon those he left behind him. 

And so Paul Narovski confessed to the deed, and was 
duly hanged and forgotten ; and at the next meeting of 
the society he was pardoned, the ban was removed from 
his name, and his poor old father and mother were “ com- 
pensated ” for the loss of their son. 

A strange wild story this. It passes belief almost that 
such things can be here in free, prosaic England. But the 
man who told it me has passed his whole life among these 
people. It is his business to know their secrets, and to 
keep St. Petersburg informed of all that happens in Lon- 
don. 

I have told the tale as it was told to me, leaving the 
reader to form ‘his own opinion upon it. It is quite pos- 
sible that the poor woman who was murdered was no 
police agent at all. She might have been denounced, as 
often happens, by an enemy. She might have given rise 
to the suspicion by an act which would admit of a differ- 
ent interpretation. But she was condemned to death by 
the London Branch of the Secret Society, and Paul Narov- 
ski was ordered to be her executioner. 

His story opens up a new land of romance in the very 
centre of our sordid gloomy city, and whether it be itself 
romance or truth, it interested me deeply ; and in the 
belief that it will interest others, I give it a place among 
these Dramas of Life, for drama it is, as strange and as 
powerful as any that have been played upon the world’s 
vast stage. 


LETTY KLEIN. 


They were standing together, a young man and a young 
woman, at the wings of the Melody Theatre, while a re- 
hearsal was in progress. She was a tall, fair girl, not 
what the world would call beautiful, but with a pleasant, 
happy, smiling face that was very charming. The feat- 
ures were irregular — the nose too small, the mouth too 
large — but it was such a frank, good-natured face that it 
attracted you at once. Letty Klein was what the young 
men of the day would call “ a jolly girl.” A member of 
a theatrical family, she was brought up to the stage, and 
though she had never become a great actress or a great 
singer, she acted gracefully and sang prettily, and was 
always sure of a fairly good part in a comic opera. Her 
German origin was unmistakable. She had the German 
hair, the German eyes, and the squareness of the German 
build. But Letty Klein was born in England, and in all 
but her name and parentage was English to the core. Her 
father, a good musician, had come over to this country 
young, and had worked his way up to the position of first 
violinist in the orchestra of one of the leading London 
theatres. He had married a little English actress, and 
lived a happy domestic life until Letty was ten years old, 
and then the great sorrow of his life fell upon him — his 
good little wife fell ill on tour. 

She had not been very well for some time past. They 
thought it was nothing serious, but one night after playing 
she complained of feeling terribly cold. She went home, 


DRAMAS OF LIFE. 


Ill 


was taken worse, and never left her bed. She died of 
typhoid fever, a fever undoubtedly contracted in one of 
the vilely insanitary, ill-ventilated dressing-rooms, which 
some years ago were a disgrace to the smaller provincial 
theatres. 

Herr Klein, to accompany his wife, had obtained the 
post of conductor to the travelling company, a comic opera 
combination, and nursed her devotedly in her last illness. 
Letty, who was at school in London, was sent for, and 
came in time to receive her mother’s last words. 

“Take care of daddy when I’m gone,’’ whispered the 
dying actress, as with a look of infinite love she gazed at 
the weeping, heart-broken man, and the sobbing child 
kneeling by her bedside, then, with a gentle pressure of 
her husband’s hand, and a whispered “God bless you, 
my darling/’ the brave little actress closed her eyes for- 
ever on the world’s great stage. 

Letty remembered her mother’s dying words. She had 
always loved her father — now she clung to him with an 
affection intensified by their common loss. Her father 
was her first thought in the morning — her last thought at 
night. She was a little household fairy, anticipating his 
every wish, managing the little home as cleverly as a 
grown-up woman could have done. 

Sunday was her happiest day. Then there was no work 
to take her father from her, and they spent the whole day 
together— walking out into the parks, going little trips up 
the river, and, when the weather was cold and wet, read- 
ing together their favorite books. 

Over the fireplace in their little sitting room there hung 
a portrait of Letty’s mother, and it often seemed to the 
girl as she looked up at it that “ mother” was with them, 
watching over them, looking at them, and sometimes — it 
was but a childish fancy— she thought that the face seemed 
to smile upon them. 

When she was seventeen, Letty, who had inherited a 


1 1 2 


DRAMAS OF LIFE. 


love for the stage, persuaded her father to let her adopt it 
as a profession. She could be at his theatre, and it would 
be so nice for them to be together— to go to the. theatre 
together — to return together. 

At first Herr Klein objected, but at last he allowed him- 
self to be convinced that after all Letty ought to be mak- 
ing a position for herself. She would not always have 
him with her. He was not a strong man, and of late years 
he had begun to feel the wear and tear of a theatrical life, 
and exposure to all sorts of winds and weathers out of 
doors, of draughts and inconveniences in the theatre. 
Having consented, he decided to do the best he could for 
his daughter, and so he interviewed his manager and 
succeeded in getting Letty in the chorus as a starting 
point. 

The girl was quick and industrious, and having the 
advantage of her father’s musical tuition she soon got out 
of the chorus and was cast for small parts. She was a 
great favorite with the company because she was always 
kind and obliging, and she was well received by the au- 
dience, who were taken by her natural ease and grace 
and her unaffected good humor. 

After three or four years of good hard work and experi- 
ence, Letty one day, in the absence through illness of an 
important actress, was entrusted with the part — and 
played it capitally. She was a genuine success, and 
from that moment she advanced rapidly until she became 
quite a popular favorite, and parts were specially written 
for her by the authors of the theatre in which she had 
stayed from the first engagement, partly because the 
management did not wish to lose her, but chiefly because 
it was the theatre where her father still occupied the posi- 
tion of first violin. 

I have devoted so much time to the young woman, that 
I fear I have been guilty of unpardonable rudeness to 
the young man, who was standing beside her at the 


DRAMAS OF LIFE. 


”3 


wings when I first called your attention to the pair. 

He was a military-looking young man, erect, with fine, 
broad shoulders, and a face which had only two weak 
points about it, the chin and the mouth. It was a strong, 
handsome face, with a weak mouth and a weak chin, 
which imparted a certain amount of effeminacy to his 
general expression. The eyes were large and dreamy, 
the eyes that women rave about, and over his high, well- 
shaped forehead, a mass of dark hair, curled in little crisp 
curls, and he had not yet sacrificed to his art the soft, 
silky moustache, which all the ladies of the chorus vowed 
it would be an act of barbarity to compel him to remove, 
even if he were going to play a part in the period of 
“clean faces.” 

Fortunately for Herbert Jephson, the new baritone of 
the Melody Theatre, the period in which the new opera 
they were rehearsing was laid, permitted him, as a Cap- 
tain of the Royal Guards, to retain his moustache, and the 
ladies of the chorus were much relieved in consequence. 

Mr. Herbert Jephson was one of the new “gentlemen 
recruits” to the professional ranks. He had commenced 
life as the son of an independent gentleman. At his 
father's death, the independency had been found to have 
been purchased by a good deal of mortgaging of prop- 
erty, and when all the independent father's creditors 
were satisfied the son found that unless he did something 
for a living he would have to be contented with a modest 
income of some <£300 a year. 

There was very little he could do, for he had had no 
special training for anything, and at the age of six-and- 
twenty it is rather difficult to begin to study for a profes- 
sion — by the time you have finished studying you are 
getting a little passe to start as a beginner and compete 
with younger men. 

The one gift which young Jephson had was that of music. 
This gift he had developed under good masters, and he 


14 


DRAMAS OF LIFE . 


was always in great request for amateur concerts. As 
soon ^is he had time to consider his position, he saw that 
if he was to rely upon anything it must be his voice. He 
at once set about the task of obtaining admission to the 
ranks of the profession. He took lessons of a stage tutor, 
played for amateur clubs by way of practice, then paid a 
large sum to an agent and procured an engagement with 
a third rate travelling company in which he acquired 
plenty of experience, but never received his salary after 
the second week of the tour. The manager was a charm- 
ing young fellow, who had married a chorus girl and 
quarrelled with his father ; he had therefore quitted his 
father’s office in a rage, and devoted his limited capital 
to touring a company with his wife, the pretty little chorus 
girl as the prima donna. 

In spite of the fact of the youthful manager walking 
about the refreshment room every evening in faultless 
evening dress, and inviting all the local critics to whom 
he was introduced to join him in a glass of champagne, 
the speculation didn’t boom, and the third week saw the 
“capital ” nearly gone. 

The company, anxious to fill in their time till the 
Christmas provincial pantomimes furnished most of them 
with engagements, consented to take half salaries, and 
Herbert Jephson being a jolly fellow and a gentleman, 
got none at all. In fact after the sixth week of the tour 
the manager who had “palled in with him,” instead of 
hinting at payment later on, invited him to invest a 
couple of hundred in the tour and “ take a share.” 

Herbert didn’t see the share, and so he didn’t accept 
the offer, but he stayed on until the company broke up 
for lack of their railway fares to the next town, and then 
with the experience of the boards he had gained, he 
returned to town and began to look out for a London 
engagement, and eventually found himself at the Melody. 

Thanks to his voice, rather than his acting, which was 


DRAMAS OF LIFE. 


ii5 

slightly amateurish, he scored a success, and at the 
termination of the run — rather a short one — of the opera 
in which he had appeared, he signed a further engage- 
ment at an increased salary with the management. His 
good looks, his moustache, and his gentlemanly manner 
made him a great favorite with the female members of 
the company — the male members didn’t care for him so 
much — the girls said that was because they were jealous. 

One man in the company hated him, and made no se- 
cret of it. Between them, from the first, there had been 
open warfare, and, alas ! the innocent cause of the ill- 
feeling was Letty Klein. 

Mr. Guy Lawrence, the tenor, was so accustomed to 
carry all before him in the way of hero-worship and ad- 
miration, that he could hardly believe the evidence of his 
senses when he found that Letty, upon whom he had 
deigned to smile condescendingly, didn’t appreciate his 
attentions. And when he confessed to himself that he 
had been fool enough to fall seriously in love with her, 
and found that his languishing looks, and his somewhat 
too cordial stage embraces had not the slightest effect, he 
imagined that the girl must be pretending indifference 
out of sheer coquetry. 

Was it possible that he, the admired tenor, who had 
dozens of scented billet doux every week at the stage door, 
was being seriously spurned by an actress, whom he 
honored with his most discreet attentions, 'and to whom 
he really would not mind sacrificing himself at the altar 
if she made that a condition. 

Nettled and wounded in his self-esteem, the hitherto 
all-conquering tenor became sulky and morose. He 
treated Letty to a little sarcasm. When the opera com- 
pelled him to make love to her, to put his arm round her 
waist, or to kiss her hand, he apologized to her and hoped 
that his love-making was not too pronounced and all 
that sort of thing. Letty laughed good-naturedly at him 
and told him not to be silly. 


DRAMAS OF LIFE. 


1 16 

Silly ! He had honored her by falling in love with her, 
and she told him not to be silly. 

It was unendurable. 

But as he really was as much in love with her as a 
fashionable tenor can possibly be in love with anyone 
but himself, he began to fret under her sustained indiffer- 
ence, and one day he wrote a letter, a letter telling her 
with many flowery expressions that he had fallen in love 
with her, and asking her to tell him plainly whether she 
could ever think of him as her husband. 

Letty took the letter to her father. 

4 ‘Papa, dear/’ she said, “I’ve had an offer of mar- 
riage.” 

Old Conrad Klein looked troubled. 

‘‘You dear old goose,” cried Letty, stooping down and 
kissing him. “I’m not going to accept it. Read this.” 

And she handed her father the letter. 

“Guy Lawrence,” he said, “Guy Lawrence in love 
with you ? ” 

“Nonsense, papa, he only thinks he is. Why he’s 
always in love with somebody or other. I want to say 
‘ No ’ as nicely as I can — how shall I say it ? ” 

Conrad Klein thought a little while. 

“I don’t think Guy Lawrence’s wife will be a happy 
woman, but he evidently thinks he loves you, and I 
shouldn’t like you to hurt his feelings, so answer him as 
nicely as you can.” 

“Of course, I will, papa, but he’ll only be wild for a 
little time. He’ll be madly in love with a lady in the 
stage-box, or a beautiful girl in the stalls in a fortnight. 
He won’t die of a broken heart over me.” 

Then Letty sat down and wrote a nice little letter, as- 
suring Mr. Guy Lawrence that she duly appreciated the 
honor, but she had no desire to marry, and she hoped 
they would always be good friends, etc., etc. 

When Lawrence received the letter he was deeply mor- 


DRAMAS OF LIFE . 


II 7 

tified. There wasn’t even a sentimental line in it, noth- 
ing to show that Letty had been tormented by doubt 
before she refused such a brilliant offer. 

But he accepted his rejection, and took pains to con- 
ceal his true feelings, and from that day they acted and 
sang together without the slightest reference to the past. 

But when Herbert Jephson joined the company all was 
changed — not only did he get as many encores as Law- 
rence, but the girls all spoke of him in terms of rapturous 
admiration. 

And, worse than all, Lawrence soon discovered with 
the keen eye of a rejected lover, that Letty Klein was not 
wholly indifferent to the new baritone. 

Yes, Herbert Jephson and Letty Klein fell in love with 
each other. 

How ? ah, gentle reader, who can tell how it is that 
men and women fall in love with each other ! We know 
that they do every day, but if you locked a number of 
young couples up in a cage, and kept them under close 
observation, as Sir John Lubbock does his ants, you 
wouldn’t be able to tell the way in which they fall in 
love, or why some of them do, and some of them don’t, 
or why some couples fall in love at once, and others take 
months — even years — before they find out that they can’t 
live apart from each other. 

I don’t know how, when, or why, Letty Klein and 
Herbert Jephson fell in love, — all that I know is that 
they did, and that Guy Lawrence knew it almost before 
they knew it themselves. 

From that moment he hated Herbert Jephson. The 
best regulated man will sometimes hate the fellow who 
wins the girl he wanted to marry How then can you 
wonder at a fashionable tenor giving away to a pas- 
sion which, as powerfully as love itself, sways the whole 
human race. 

When next Letty Klein came to her father about a lover, 


1 1 8 


DRAMAS OF LIFE. 


she came with blushing, burning cheeks, and a beating 
heart. She didn’t laugh this time. She just knelt down 
one Sunday afternoon by her father’s chair, with a timid, 
tender little glance at the picture of her dead mother over 
the mantle-shelf, and, then hiding her head against his 
breast she whispered, “Papa, I’ve got something to tell 
you.” 

“Yes, dear,” said her father kindly — he was just going 
off into his afternoon doze — “What is it?” 

“Please, papa, Mr. Jephson’s in love with me.” 

“What!” 

The old violinist opened his eyes quite wide, and sat 
up in his chair — no dozing for him that afternoon. 

“Yes, papa dear, he is, he told me so, and, and 
papa, you won’t be angry with me, will you, for I can’t 
help it, but I’m afraid I’m in love with him.” 

The old violinist knew the truth ; love had come at last 
to his child — the love that was to come between them, 
and take her from him ; the love that henceforward was 
to make him second in her thoughts, and a stranger — a 
stranger to him — first. 

For a moment he let his own selfish sorrow show itself 
upon his face, then with an effort he smiled, and lifting 
his daughter’s blushing face from his breast, bent his own 
down and kissed her fondly. 

“ Letty, my darling,” he said, “your happiness will 
always be mine. Pray God, you have chosen well.” 

“Oh, papa, Herbert is so kind — so good — I — I ” 

Then something came up in her throat and she could 
say no more. She only gave a little sob, and the old man 
put his arms about her, and took her to his breast as he 
used to do when she was a child, and kissed her and 
comforted her, the tears slowly rolling down his own 
worn cheeks, when he tried to smile and talk gayly of 
her happy future with the man she loved. 

And when Letty, smiling through her own tears, looked 


DRAMAS OF LIFE. 


n 9 

up at last she saw her mother’s face smiling on them too, 
and it seemed to her that in the gentle eyes there was a 
look of sympathy and love, and that the dumb lips were 
shaping a blessing on them both. 

There were no more Sundays for father and daughter 
after that. Herbert Jephson joined the party now. He 
had quite won over Conrad Klein. He had told Letty’s 
father all his history — he had laid his heart bare, and the 
old man took to him. He was glad Letty was going to 
be married now. He would not have to leave her alone 
and unprotected in the world. He saw that Herbert 
Jephson was a gentleman, he admired his character, and 
he was certain that there was an excellent future before 
him in the profession he had adopted. 

And so Herbert and Letty were engaged, and every- 
body in the theatre knew it, and though some of the 
chorus girls thought it was a pity for him to be married 
so soon, yet they were all very fond of Letty, and they 
were the first to say that they were glad she was going to 
marry such a charming fellow; if he must be married 
they would sooner Letty carry him off than anybody else 
in the theatre. 

Guy Lawrence heard the news first on the stage — one 
of the girls, a pert, mischievous little minx was his in- 
formant. She was standing behind him at the wings, 
and he turned and addressed a chaffing remark to her 
about an old fellow in the stalls, who was popularly sup- 
posed to come night after night because he was madly in 
love with her. 

“There’s your mash, old Methuselah, in the stalls 
again to-night, Jenny,” he said; “if you don’t marry him 
soon you’ll lose him. They say he’s 90 next birthday.” 

Jenny laughed, showing her little white teeth viciously. 

“ I’m not like you, ’’she said, “ I don’t fancy everybody 
who looks at me in love with me. It’s an awful take 


I 20 


RAMAS OF LIFE. 


down for you, Letty Klein marrying Mr. Jephson, I should 
think.” 

“What’s that?” exclaimed Lawrence, who had begun 
to laugh at what he called Jenny’s “cheek.” 

“You know you thought you’d only to look at her 
once and she’d fall into your arms, but she didn’t. She’s 
going to marry Jephson, they’re engaged — her dresser 
told me so.” 

It was Lawrence’s cue. Biting his lip with rage and 
mortification at the idea that his discomfiture and his 
rival’s success was the gossip of the theatre, he put on his 
languishing primo tenore look, and went on to the stage. 

“ I gave him one for himself that time,” said Jenny, as 
she turned to the other girls ; “ he will be mad, I’ll bet, 
now he knows we know all about it.” 

The hatred Lawrence felt for his rival was increased 
tenfold by the knowledge that everybody in the theatre 
looked upon him (Lawrence) as a disappointed suitor for 
Letty Klein’s hand. He didn’t waste any time in won- 
dering how the secret had leaked out. In a theatre every- 
thing is known. It is a hotbed of gossip and scandal. 
What the ladies and gentlemen don’t know about each 
other they invent, and there is always in a company a 
mischief maker, whose delight it is to set everybody by 
the ears. 

. “So,” Guy Lawrence muttered to himself, as he left the 
theatre and walked towards his club in the Strand. “ So 
they’re engaged, are they? Jephson’s going to marry 
her, and I’m to be the laughing-stock of the company. 
I’m to pose as the neglected suitor. It’s to go all over 
the profession that I was in love with Letty Klein, and 
that she refused me for this damned amateur. Well, 
there’s many a slip ’twixt the cup and the lip, and they’re 
not married yet.” 

Under ordinary circumstances Guy Lawrence would 


DRAMAS OF LIFE. 


I 21 


have scorned to do what he presently began to look upon 
as a fair reprisal for the injury he considered he had re- 
ceived at the hands of Herbert Jephson. 

But his vanity had been deeply wounded, and wounded 
vanity has been the cause of some of the meanest and 
most cowardly actions the world has seen. History 
teems with tragedies which have been the result of a 
blow to a great man’s pride. Half the vendettas of 
modern society, the vendettas which finish in the law 
courts and the police courts in these unromantic days are 
due to wounded vanity. 

The first thing that Lawrence did was to try and find 
out something to Jephson’s discredit. He made inquiries 
right and left about him — he found out the actors with 
whom he had acted — he got hold of a man who had been 
connected with the travelling company that had come to 
grief while Jephson was a member of it. 

He wanted to find a woman or a man who had a 
grudge against Jephson, and at last he found — a woman. 

In the meantime, heedless of the impending danger, 
Herbert Jephson and Letty Klein dreamed their love’s 
young dream, and although they never made idiots of 
themselves in public, it was easy to see that they were 
devoted to each other. 

Guy Lawrence offered Herbert Jephson his congratu- 
lations, and from the day that his plan of revenge was 
completed took the utmost pains to conceal his real feel- 
ing, and now laid himself out to be as agreeable as 
possible. 

“Lawrence isn’t such a bad fellow, after all, Letty,” 
said Herbert, one day. “Now he sees that there’s no 
chance for him he is behaving very well, and I think he 
really wants to be friendly.” 

Letty was pleased to hear it. 

She wasn’t a vain little puss who wanted to set men by 
the ears and to make women jealous ; she wanted to 
make everybody about her as happy as possible, 


122 


DRAMAS OF LIFE. 


She had been just a wee bit nervous at first after she 
had accepted Herbert Jephson, as to the way in which 
Lawrence would take it. She was afraid that there might 
be a little feeling, and the rivalry of the men might be 
intensified. There is no place in the world in which a 
little bad feeling can make everybody so uncomfortable 
as in a theatre. The quarrel of two people will often 
upset the entire company, and sometimes wreck the 
fortunes of an enterprise. 

Everything in a theatre is theatrical, including the 
emotions of the people who pass their lives in simulating 
the feelings of ordinary humanity. Everything is inten- 
sified and built up for effect. Love is more passionate, 
hatred more bitter, revenge more furious, jealousy more 
terrible, than among ordinary mortals. Your real actor 
never leaves off acting or using the tricks of the profession. 
He can weep when another man can only heave a sym- 
pathetic sigh ; he can shower upon the acquaintance of a 
few days a vocabulary of endearing terms which you or 
I, gentle reader, would not think of employing to a life- 
long friend. He magnifies everything to theatrical pro- 
portions. If an audience applaud him when he makes 
his entrance, it is “ By Jove, my dear fellow, they rose at 
me — they wanted to eat me. Gad, you never heard any- 
thing like it in your life.” If any one tells an actor that his 
little bit of pathos was very affecting, it is, “ He told me, 
my dear fellow, that he cried like a child at it. It made 
me ill.” 

Exaggeration comes naturally to people who are trained 
to exaggerate in order to get their effects, and they are not 
to be blamed when use becomes their second nature. 

It was because Guy Lawrence had lived his whole life 
in the highly charged atmosphere of theatrical life, that 
he flung himself with such intensity into the scheme for 
his rival’s discomfiture. He did not see the baseness of 
his act He only saw a way of humiliating a man and a 


DRAMAS OF LIFE . 


I23 


woman who had humiliated him, and whom for the time 
being he hated with all the intensity of theatrical hatred. 

And so he brought upon the scene a woman — a 
woman who had known Herbert Jephson in bygone 
days — and he bribed and cajoled her into speaking the 
word which should wreck the happiness of two young 
lives. 

The young gentleman who had left his father’s office 
in order to run a young lady in the chorus, whom he had 
married, as the prima donna of a travelling Comic Opera 
Company, was in London, and temporarily very hard 
up. 

His papa, Josiah Dabbs, Esq., in addition to being a 
big pot in the City, was also a big pot in religious circles, 
and had been brought up to regard all places of worldly 
amusement, more especially theatres and music halls, as 
the anterooms of perdition. When his son Samuel, who 
was supposed to be reading hard for the bar, absented 
himself so frequently from the paternal mansion at 
Streatham, remaining in town in order, as he said, to 
prosecute his studies, etc., with less interruption, the 
worthy Josiah little dreamed that his boy had surrendered 
himself to the fascination of the footlights, and had suc- 
ceeded in gettingan introduction to a fair young chorister, 
to whom he had at once, over a recherche little supper at 
the Cavour, offered his hand and heart. 

Miss Tilly Tennyson (real name Matilda Toomey)was 
by no means a bad-hearted little girl, and enjoyed the 
reputation of knowing how to take care of herself. When 
first Mr. Dabbs, Junior, proposed to her, she put it down 
to his youth and inexperience, and the champagne, and 
she laughed at him, and tapped him with her fan, and 
said it was time she got home, as “ Mother would be 
sitting up. 

But when on the following night she received a letter at 
the stage door, in which the youthful Samuel declared that 


124 


DRAMAS OF LIFE. 


her beauty and her genius had made an impression upon 
him which would only end with his life, and renewing his 
offer, Tilly, who had ascertained that old Dabbs was 
worth a lot of money, and that Samuel was his only son, 
began to take a more serious view of the matter. 

That night Samuel was waiting for his answer at the 
stage door, and they adjourned to the Cavour for supper. 

After supper Tilly allowed Samuel to accompany her 
in a hansom as far as her house in a little side street Tun- 
ing off the Camden-road, and she walked about with him 
for quite half an hour “keeping mother up” in the most 
undutiful manner, but during the walk from the top of the 
street, and then back again to the bottom, and so on, 
Samuel persuaded Tilly to be engaged to him, and painted 
a glorious picture of what she could do with “his money.” 
He would take her away from the chorus at once, he 
would have an opera written for her, and if he couldn’t 
get a London theatre, she should star the provinces. 

Tilly was delighted with the idea of being a prima 
donna, and having her own company, and seeing her 
name in big type on the bills, and her photographs in the 
shop windows, and her pictures, extra size, stuck up outside 
the theatre doors. And after she had said “ yes,” and 
then let Samuel kiss her, and waited till he got out of 
sight before she put the latch-key in the door, which might 
have destroyed the illusion she was anxious to maintain 
in his youthful breast that “ Mother always sat up,” she 
went upstairs to bed, and dreamt all night of huge posters, 
with “ Miss Tilly Tennyson, the Queen of Comic Opera,” 
upon them in letters two feet high. 

The marriage eventually took place. Josiah Dabbs re- 
fused to have anything more to do with his son, or to 
receive his son’s wife, and the youthful Samuel with the 
limited capital at his command, and a certain amount 
raised on his expectations, set out to startle the provinces 
with his leading lady and a comic opera which had been 


DRAMAS OF LIFE. 


125 


a dead failure in London, and which had been foisted on 
to him for a sum down, as just the thing with which to 
set the rivers of England on fire. 

It was with his company that Herbert Jephson trav- 
elled as long as it lasted. He and young Mr. Dabbs fra- 
ternized considerably (they were, perhaps, a little out of 
their element with some of the other members), and it 
was then, in an incautious moment, that Jephson con- 
fided to Samuel a little story, in which he was the hero, 
and a young lady named Maggie Helsham was the 
heroine. 

Jephson was a very good-looking fellow, and a Bohe- 
mian, to a certain extent, in his habits. I am not going, 
because he is my hero, to make him out any better than 
he was. There are periods in the lives of many young 
men, who become excellent husbands, devoted fathers, 
and honorable citizens, into which it is not wise to inquire 
too closely. Herbert Jephson, at the very outset of his 
career, had formed a temporary partnership with a young 
woman. Somehow or other — the arrangement is un- 
fortunately, common enough with friendless young men 
in great cities — the acquaintance drifted into a liaison , and 
their liaison had ended in their occupying the same lodg- 
ings, and passing with the landladies and others whom 
it might concern as Mr. and Mrs. Herbert Jephson. 

Just before Herbert went on tour, the temporary union 
had abruptly terminated. There had been a few words, 
and when Herbert announced his intention of going into 
the provinces, Maggie had declined to go with him. For 
many reasons Jephson was not sorry. He wouldn’t have 
done anything mean or ungentlemanly, but he was begin- 
ning to feel the falseness of their position, and Maggie 
had not been quite the sort of a young person he would 
care to enter into a permanent contract with and look up 
to as the guide, philosopher, and friend of his mature 
years. 


126 


DRAMAS OF LIFE . 


So in just such a matter-of-fact way as they had drifted 
together they drifted apart. It was the girl’s doing, not 
his, and there was an end of it. 

But one day while he was on tour he received a letter 
from Maggie, asking him to let her have £20, as she was 
“hard up,” etc., etc. He hadn’t the money. His salary 
was in arrears, and it was on this occasion that he went 
to his youthful manager, and in explaining why he both- 
ered him he rather indiscreetly revealed the whole of the 
circumstances which led up to this demand. 

Young Mr. Dabbs was at that time financing his com- 
pany with extreme difficulty, and it was generally a wild 
struggle to get his company on to the next town because 
railway fares must be paid in advance. There is no tem- 
porizing with the booking clerk. The booking clerk who 
will take a bill at three months for the railway fares of 
twenty-five people from Newcastle to Edinburgh has not 
burst upon a startled world. Companies have been known 
to “travel on their luggage,” and watches and pins and 
ladies’ bracelets and brooches have been left with a kind- 
hearted station-master, but beyond that the romance of 
touring the provinces with a “show” has not yet gone. 

But though it was Saturday night, and the house all told 
was only £27 10s. 6d., making a total on the week of £99 
2s. 3d., and Mr. Dabb’s share of that was only forty-five 
per cent, after the first £15 had been taken by the local 
manager, he determined under the circumstances to see 
what he could do for his friend ; and he there and then 
proceeded to deposit his diamond shirt studs with a 
tradesman in the town, and this made up sufficient to 
hand Herbert Jephson £ 1 5. This Jephson duly forwarded 
to Maggie, together with a five-pound note which he still 
possessed himself. 

This circumstance had impressed the whole affair viv- 
idly on young Mr. Dabb’s mind, and so it happened that 
when, a long time afterward, he had retired from man- 


DRAMAS OF LIFE. 


127 


agement, and was in London working hard to get back 
into his papa’s graces, while Tilly, like a good little 
woman, had gone back to her small parts, and was con- 
tributing her £2 10s. od. a week to the domestic expenses 
of their drawing-room floor in South Crescent, Bedford 
Square, he recalled the event when he met Guy Lawrence 
one evening at the Foyer Club in the Strand, and Law- 
rence artfully led the conversation on to the subject of 
Mr. Dabbs’ former baritone. 

“I suppose he was an awful masher, wasn’t he?” said 
Mr. Lawrence. 

“ He was a jolly good fellow, and a credit to my com- 
pany,” replied Mr. Dabbs, with that accent on the “my” 
which even his short managerial experience had enabled 
him to acquire. 

“ Run after by the girls a good deal, wasn’t he?” 

“They all liked him very much, he was such a thor- 
ough gentleman.” 

“Oh, I heard that one of the girls was awfully gone 
on him,” said Mr. Lawrence, still trying to see if there 
was anything to be gleaned in this quarter. 

“If she was, he wasn’t gone on her, as far as I know. 
I fancy it was a case of once bitten twice shy with 
Jephson.” 

“Oh, yes, I think I remember,” exclaimed the artful 
interviewer, “he didn’t come very well out of that affair, 
did he?” 

The youthful and still verdant Samuel fell into the trap. 
He defended Jephson, and in defending him he told the 
story of how Herbert had sent the £20 to the young lady 
who had left him in London. 

“I remember it well enough,” said Samuel, laughing, 
“because, by Jove, I was awfully hard up, and had to 
pawn my diamond studs to make up the money.” 

Guy declared that put a different complexion on the 
affair. It was quite another story he had heard (he had 


128 


DRAMAS OF LIFE. 


never heard a word about the affair in his life), and then 
he succeeded gradually in getting Mr. Dabbs to remem- 
ber the lady’s name, and when he left the club that night 
he knew that at one time the man who had cut him out, 
the man who was going to marry Letty Klein, had had a 
mistress, and that her name was Maggie Helsham. 

To find her was not an easy task. His inquiries had to 
be conducted without exciting suspicion. He did not 
want it known that he was the person who was trying to 
discover the whereabouts of Jephson’s former mistress. 

But chance favored him, and one day he found himself 
in possession of the information that a young woman 
named Maggie Helsham was living in Stamford Street, 
Blackfriars. 

A few inquiries satisfied Guy Lawrence that Maggie 
might without any great dificulty be persuaded to further 
his scheme. She was hard up — her jewellery was all in 
pawn, and she was only just recovering from a long attack 
of illness which had compelled her temporarily to abandon 
her employment, which was that of “ extra lady ” at a 
spectacular house. 

A letter from an ‘ ‘ old friend, ” asking for an appoint- 
ment “ on a matter which was of the greatest importance 
to herself,” brought an invitation to call at her lodgings, 
and cautiously, and cleverly, Mr. Guy Lawrence, who 
called himself by another name, broke the ice and 
sounded the young woman as to her willingness to “ren- 
der a great service to a lady ” for a consideration. 

As soon as he was satisfied that the ground was pre- 
pared for the seed he wished to sow, Guy Lawrence in- 
formed Miss Helsham that a very near relative of his, a 
young lady, was determined to marry an old sweetheart 
of Miss Helsham’s — Mr. Herbert Jephson — that the 
friends were strongly opposed to the match, etc., etc., 
and the interview ended by Maggie, who was desperately 
hard up, and bitter against the world, which she consid- 


DRAMAS OF LIFE. 


129 

ered had treated her badly, consenting to carry out the 
system of attack suggested by her visitor. 

The first thing she did was to write to Herbert Jephson 
a piteous letter, telling him she was in great trouble and 
imploring him for the sake of old times to see her. 

The letter annoyed and worried Jephson considerably. 
I have said that his mouth and chin were weak — they 
denoted a certain weakness of character which had on 
one or two previous occasions led him into trouble which 
a stronger mind would have avoided. 

He was distressed that this old entanglement should 
crop up just as he was on the eve of making Letty his wife. 
It made him nervous. He had visions of Maggie calling 
at the stage door to see him. He had lost all trace of her 
since he had sent her the £20, and he fondly hoped that 
she would trouble him no more. 

Her letter made him nervous. He built up a series of 
imaginary troubles — he saw everything in the worst light, 
and instead of writing a firm and manly letter back he 
temporized, he was anxious not to make Maggie an 
enemy, and so he foolishly wrote back and made an ap- 
pointment, hoping that he would be able to silence the girl 
by explaining his position, and helping her as far as he 
could out of her difficulty. 

His letter was duly shown to Guy Lawrence, and an 
appointment was made at Maggie’s lodgings. Jephson 
found her lying on a sofa. She was very ill she told him, 
almost unable to move. Then she cried, and told him 
that she had never been happy since he left her, that it 
was all his fault, but she had no one in the world to help 
her now, and she hoped, for the sake of old times, that 
Herbert would. 

The man was terribly worried. He couldn’t say any- 
thing harsh or cruel to the weeping invalid, and so again 
he temporized, and instead of telling her at once that he 
was going to be married, and that all communication be- 
tween them must cease, he gave her money. 


DRAMAS OF LIFE. 


130 

When he got home, he sat down and wrote a letter to 
her, telling her in writing what he had not had the cour- 
age to say, and he pointed out that under the circum- 
stances he could not visit her again. 

No reply was sent to his letter then, but a fortnight later 
the stage door-keeper informed him that a lady had called 
and asked for him. 

Herbert Jephson instantly jumped to the conclusion 
that it was Maggie. 

His face flushed crimson, as, while he was standing 
talking to the man, Letty and her father came in. 

As soon as they had passed the stage door Jephson 
asked the man what name the lady gave. 

“ She didn’t give any name, sir, but she said you’d 
know, and she hoped you’d call on her to-morrow, as she 
wanted to see you particularly, and didn’t want to have 
to come out in the night-air/’ 

The message was a threat ! Jephson understood it as 
such at once, and the blood left his cheeks. 

Unless he called on her, Maggie Helsham intended to 
come to the theatre where he was acting with his future 
wife. 

The cold perspiration stood upon his brow when he 
thought what might result if this system of persecution 
was continued. He knew enough of Maggie in the old 
days to know that she was careless of her words when 
her temper was aroused ; that unless, he conciliated her, 
she was quite capable of waiting for him and insulting 
him, perhaps before Letty and her father. 

The next day he came round to Miss Helsham’s lodg- 
ings again — this time furious and desperate. 

The girl, stung by his words, lost her temper and grew 
furious too. She had a claim upon him. She wasn’t 
going to starve while he was rolling in luxury. He had 
cast her off and deserted her, and the woman he was going 
to marry should know what he was and so should her father. 


DRAMAS OF LIFE. 


13 1 

Jephson shuddered, and the hot words he was going to 
speak died away upon his lips. 

Maggie Helsham knew that it was Letty Klein to whom 
he was engaged. 

Then the weakness of his character triumphed again. 
He lost his firmness and pleaded. All was over between 
them, had been long ago. Was it fair for her now to try 
and wreck the happiness of his life, the happiness of one 
who was dearer to him than life? 

The girl pretended to be mollified, made all sorts of 
promises, with the tears in her eyes, and once more 
Herbert Jephson paid blackmail. 

Had he been firm of purpose and strong of will he 
would have gone to old Conrad Klein and told him all, 
but he hesitated. It seemed to him such a dreadful thing 
to have to say that he was being persecuted by a woman 
who had been his mistress, and that this woman threat- 
ened to tell Letty everything. 

The worry was telling upon him — he fell off in his act- 
ing, he was nervous on the stage. His trouble kept him 
awake at night, and his face began to wear a look of pain 
and anxiety. Letty noticed it, and feared that her lover 
was ill. He said that he had had bad headaches of late, 
but that he should soon be all right, and assured her that 
it was nothing. 

And all the time Guy Lawrence looked on and saw in 
his rival’s altered manner and look of depression, that the 
poison was beginning to work. 

But, in the meantime, a greater wrong had been done. 
Old Conrad Klein had one day received an anonymous 
letter, informing him that his daughter’s future husband 
had behaved infamously to a young woman, whom he 
had made his mistress, under the promise that she should 
be his wife ; that he had cast her off, and allowed her to 
fall into a state of great poverty, and that the story having 
become known in the profession he was now visiting the 


i3 2 


DRAMAS OF LIFE . 


girl constantly, and endeavoring to smooth matters over, 
and to bribe her not to bring an action for breach of 
promise of marriage against him. 

When the old violinist received the letter he was horri- 
fied ; a man with a poetic and chivalrous belief in woman 
— a man whose own married life had been one long idyll 
— he looked upon the sort of conduct attributed to Jephson 
with the utmost loathing and disgust. 

Could it be true ? 

If it were, Herbert Jephson was no fit husband for his 
sweet Letty. He would rather see her in her grave than 
the wife of a libertine. Should he show the letter to 
Herbert, and ask him to deny it ? 

That would be an honorable thing to do, but the future 
happiness of his child was at. stake. 

If the charge were true Herbert would deny it. Alarmed 
at the discovery he might take means to prevent the truth 
being ascertained. 

The name of the woman and her address were given in 
the letter. 

Conrad Klein would see, would know the truth himself. 
If the story were a lie, a wicked fabrication of some 
enemy of Jephson’s, then he should never be pained by 
knowing that such a vile charge had been made against 
him. 

The old violinist had received the anonymous letter on 
the Saturday night at the theatre. On the Sunday he had 
been unusually grave. After dinner Letty came and sat 
by him, and talked in her quiet, happy way of Herbert 
and the future. Her dear old father was to live with them 
when they were married — nothing should separate them. 
And then on Sundays they would be able to sit together 
as they had done for years. 

Letty looked up as she spoke at her mother’s face. In 
their new home that sweet face would still look down 
upon her, she thought. It should hang over the mantle- 


DRAMAS OF LIFE. 


133 

shelf just as it hung here. Her mother and her father 
should share the happiness of her married life. 

The old man followed the tender gaze of the girl, and 
his eyes rested on his lost wife’s face and they filled with 
tears. Was another great sorrow coming upon him now ; 
was he about to learn that which would compel him to 
dash the cup of happiness from his daughters lips, to 
darken her young life with a cloud that perhaps must 
never be lifted ? 

Unable to control his emotion, he pleaded a headache 
and said that he would lie down for a little. Letty was 
left alone. Herbert was not coming that Sunday. He 
had to go to see a friend in the country. The truth was 
that Herbert had gone to see a relative, a solicitor, who 
lived at Hertford, to ask him for his advice, for the situa- 
tion was becoming unbearable. 

Letty sat in her father’s armchair, and took up a book 
of poems to read. She read till she was tired, and then 
laid her head back in the chair to dream. 

As her hands fell down by her side in the great arm- 
chair her fingers touched something. She drew it up and 
looked at it. It was a letter-*— a letter which had fallen 
from her father’s pocket 

Now Letty was her papa’s secretary. All his corre- 
spondence was attended to by her. Between father and 
daughter there were no secrets, and being in the habit of 
reading all his letters she began to read this one without 
thinking. It might be one he had forgotten to give her 
— some matter which wanted attending to. 

She read it half through before she understood what it 
was about. Then, knowing not what she did, she gave 
a little cry and read it to the end. 

Then she dropped it as though it had been a burning 
coal, and started to her feet. “Oh,” she moaned, “how 
vile, how wicked. It is not true, I know it is not true.” 

She was woman of the world enough to understand 


DRAMAS OF LIFE. 


134 

all that the vile letter meant to her. For a moment she 
thought she was dreaming — that some hideous night- 
mare had come to her in her sleep. 

But she looked down on the floor, and there lay the 
hideous thing at her feet. 

Then, with a sharp cry of pain as though a serpent 
had stung her, she fell upon her knees, and lifting up her 
streaming eyes to the portrait of her dead mother, -she 
prayed — prayed passionately, for help, for light in her 
darkness, for guidance in her hour of anguish. 

And as she prayed, she grew calmer. Her mother’s— 
face smiled on her still. There was no sorrow there, no 
cloud upon the brow, no dimness in those tender eyes. 

The girl took it as an omen. This dastardly letter was 
a lie. Her Herbert was good and loyal and true. 

In a moment she had made up her mind. Passing 
hurriedly into her little bedroom she put on her hat and 
her mantle, picked up the letter, and leaving a message 
with the servant that she had gone for a walk, she went 
out into the street, and, hailing a cab, told the driver to 
take her to Stamford-street, Blackfriars. 

Letty Klein was going to call upon Maggie Helsham. 

When Letty arrived at the house her heart sank a little, 
and for a moment her courage failed her. 

What was she going to do ? 

To learn from this woman’s own lips if the story was 
true, and if it was true to yield up her lover to the woman 
who had the greater right to him. Come what may, 
she would at least not be the one to rob her of him. 

She asked to see Miss Helsham, but gave no name. 
“Say a lady on urgent business.” 

Letty was admitted, and found herself face to face 
with the woman Herbert was said to have so cruelly 
wronged. 

Letty was only awom^nafter all, and just for one wee 


DRAMAS OF LIFE. 


*35 

moment, amid all her grief and pain, there was a sense 
of relief that this woman was not her superior — either 
in appearance or manner. 

Letty hesitated a second, and then, summoning up all 
her courage, said, “Miss Helsham, I am Letty Klein.” 

Maggie’s face flushed hotly. This, then, was the girl 
whose happiness she was trying to ruin. She hardly 
knew what to say, but she muttered, “Indeed.” 

Then all that was in Letty’s overcharged little heart 
burst forth. She told Miss Helsham of the anonymous 
letter. She showed it to her, and then she begged her 
to say if it was true. 

“And if it is ? ” said Maggie. 

“If it is, I pity you from my heart, and, though it kills 
me, I will do all I can to make the man who has wronged 
you do you justice.” 

Poor Letty only spoke a little theatrically because it 
was the language of her everyday life. The words came 
from her heart, and every one of them caused her a throb 
of agony.. 

Maggie Helsham’s better nature was moved by the 
spectacle of this beautiful girl standing there her cham- 
pion, sacrificing herself and all that was dearest to her in 
life for the sake of a woman she had never seen be- 
fore. 

She was not particularly emotional, but the tears came 
into her eyes as she answered, “Miss Klein — I — I don’t 
deserve your sympathy. I’ve been a wretch. Instead 
of pitying me you ought to hate me,” and then in her 
wild impulsive way she told the whole story of the past, 
how she had left Herbert herself years ago and taken up 
with another man, and how she had allowed herself to 
become the accomplice of his enemy in trying to break 
off his marriage with Letty. 

Then falling on her knees she implored Letty to forgive 
her for the wrong she had done. Letty raised her gently 


DRAMAS OF LIFE . 


136 

and pressing her lips upon her cheeks, said “My poor 
girl, I do forgive you, let me be your friend and help you 
to lead a happier and a brighter life.” 

While the two girls were talking together the servant 
came in. “A gentleman wishes to see Miss Helsham.” 
Maggie had forgotten that Guy Lawrence was to call that 
afternoon. He had followed the servant, the door was 
open, and Mr. Guy Lawrence found himself face to face 
with Letty Klein. 

The whole vile conspircy was revealed to her in a mo- 
ment. Taking the anonymous letter from her pocket 
she advanced towards the dumfounded tenor. “Mr. 
Lawrence,” she said, “ I believe this is yours. If I were 
to show it to Herbert Jephson he would thrash you. 
I don’t think you are worth that, so I give it you back 
again. Good-afternoon.” 

Letty Klein and Herbert Jephson have been married 
for some months. Old Conrad Klein, who lives with 
them, still has the place of honor by the cosy fireside 
on Sunday afternoons, and, smiling down upon the hap- 
py little family, the portrait of the dead mother hangs 
over the mantel-shelf. 

The old man knows what his brave little daughter did 
about the anonymous letter, but Herbert will never 
know. Neither Letty nor her father wish him to think 
that they ever heard of the one mistake of his life. But 
the shadow of Maggie Helsham never lies upon his hap- 
py domestic hearth. The day after Letty ’s interview with 
her, Herbert received a letter, in which she expressed her 
sincere regret for the annoyance she had caused him, 
and promised never to worry him again. 

Guy Lawrence, as soon as his engagement was up, left 
the Melody, and when last heard of was in America, 
where the waggish critics roundly accused him of keeping 
goronetted note-paper in his writing desk, in order to 


DRAMAS OF LIFE. 


137 


write himself letters from English duchesses, which he 
always managed to leave lying about when anyone was 
coming to his dressing-room. 

Brave little Letty Klein, how many girls would have 
had the pluck to grasp their nettle as she did hers. She 
had her reward. She crushed a scandal which might 
have haunted her all her life, and she is the happiest little 
wife in London, married — she says so herself and she 
ought to be the best judge — to the best husband in the 
world. 


A LADY-KILLER. 


The element of chance is an all-important one in most 
mundane affairs. There is no end to the remarkable feats 
which this same “ chance ” will accomplish. “A lucky- 
chance ” and an “unlucky chance ” are standing expres- 
sions in the every-day vocabulary of the country. Chance 
is a marvellous decider of battles ; chance sways the des- 
tinies of statesmen ; chance is the founder of half the 
fortunes that are piled up in business ; chance brings 
about the largest percentage of marriages, and chance has 
a great deal to do with the death rate. 

Into the detection of crime “chance ” enters far more 
largely than the outside world imagines. If the detectives 
of all our great European capitals would tell the truth, the 
whole truth, and nothing but the truth, they would have 
to confess that chance is their best friend. 

It was chance that made me acquainted with one of 
the most remarkable scoundrels of the present day, and 
enabled me — but, as they say in the dear old-fashioned 
story-books, do not let us anticipate. 

I was standing one night, about twelve months ago, at 
Piccadilly Circus, surveying a scene the like of which 
would not be tolerated in any other city of the world. 

It was long past midnight, and yet the street from the 
circus, almost as far as the Royal Academy, was a 
laughing, hustling mob of well-dressed men and gayly- 
dressed women. 

There was no mistaking the character of the ladies,, or 


DRAMAS OF LIFE . 


139 


why they were there. The police moved about, breaking 
up the groups that congregated, and exclaiming, me- 
chanically, “ Move on, please ! ” but their presence placed 
very little restriction upon the shameless licence of the 
mob. 

Standing about, up side turnings and in dark corners, 
were some of the worst wretches in London, bullies and 
leviers of blackmail, scoundrels of the most degraded and 
loathsome type, men thoroughly well known to the 
police, yet, under the glorious freedom of the English 
law, allowed, without let or hindrance, to send their 
female accomplices, or rather their female victims, into 
this vicious mob, night after night, to seek their prey. 

I have no wish to dwell upon the aspects of the plague 
spot. If I were to attempt to write what I know about it, 
and to paint it in its true colors, to tell the story of some 
of its well-known habitues , I should have to write in a 
style which would alter the character of these stories. I 
should shock and startle, when I wish only to interest and 
amuse. Some day I may venture to speak out, but it 
will not be under the cloak of fiction. The facts are too 
serious, too terrible for the mere story-teller to deal with. 
When they are marshalled it must not be for review, but 
for battle — for a war to the death between the mock 
morality which makes London the most openly immoral 
of our great cities, and the real morality which drives vice 
out of sight, where it cannot pollute the innocent, or 
shame the modest, or prey upon the weak and unwary. 

I even ask pardon of the reader now for touching upon 
this scene at all, but it was necessary for me to do so, for 
it was while studying the “state of Piccadilly ” that 
“chance ” brought me for the first time face to face with 
the hero of this narrative — Mr. Hubert Zolway. 

Two policemen and an inspector had just broken up a 
mob congregating round two young ladies, who were 
settling a trifling difference of opinion with their nails and 


140 


DRAMAS OF LIFE . 


teeth, when a tall, military-looking man of about fifty-five, 
with an elegantly-curled gray moustache, came sauntering 
along smoking a cigarette. 

Beneath his elegant fur-lined overcoat you caught sight 
of a white tie — that and his black trousers and patent- 
leather boots proclaimed the fact that he was in evening 
dress. 

He was sauntering along, probably on his homeward 
way, and not taking much notice of the gay crowd about 
him, when suddenly a well-dressed woman caught sight 
of him as she passed. With a little cry she turned, strode 
after him, caught him up, and then, with a vigorous blow 
of her umbrella, knocked his hat off into the muddy street. 

The gentleman turned round with an oath, gave a little 
start as he recognized his assailant, then picked his hat 
up and put it on his head, and attempted to pass. 

But the woman stood in front of him, and, in the ex- 
pressive language of the day, “let him have it.” 

What she called him I need not say — probably many of 
the epithets which she flung at him in rapid succession 
would be Greek to the majority of my readers. But the 
one thing she did not call him w T as “a gentleman.” 

To my surprise the man, though evidently ill at ease, 
made no reply. A little crow.d had begun to gather, and 
the helmet of a policeman hove rapidly in sight. 

The woman saw it. 

“Now, give me in charge, Mr. Hubert Zolway !” she 
exclaimed. “Here’s a policeman coming. I won’t run 
away.” 

Mr. Hubert Zolway had evidently no such intention. 
He watched his opportunity, pushed his way through the 
crowd, and walked rapidly up a side street. 

When the policeman arrived, and exclaimed “Now 
then, what’s the matter here?” the crowd began to dis- 
perse. 

The woman who had committed the assault didn’t wait 


DRAMAS OF LIFE. 


141 


to explain matters to the policeman, but moved away 
with the rest, and the “incident” terminated. 

I should have passed along myself and taken no further 
notice, but that my curiosity received a fresh fillip. 

As the woman turned away I saw a man go up and 
speak to her. I recognized him at once as one of the 
cleverest detectives in London — a man who, after rising 
to high rank in the force, had left it to start as a private 
detective on his own account. 

'“ Hallo ! ” I said to myself, “ what does Jarvis want ? '* 

And then it struck me that the incident might have 
been what is called a “put-up job” — that the woman, in 
committing the assault, was acting in concert with the 
detective, who wanted to have a good look at his man, 
possibly without his hat. 

I knew Jarvis intimately, so, thinking I might have an 
opportunity of speaking to him, I followed him as he 
crossed the road to the quiet side of Piccadilly with the 
woman. 

They walked up about as far as the Park conversing 
together ; then Jarvis wished the woman good night, and 
turned back towards the circus. 

I went up to him as soon as the woman was out of 
sieht, and we shook hands. 

“I saw that assault,” I said, “andFm anxious to know 
what it meant. Was it done for you ? M 

“No,” replied the detective, “it was one of those 
chances that are always coming off in our favor. I never 
saw that woman before in my life, but I was watching 
the man,” 

“ Oh, what is it — a divorce ? ” 

“ No, it’s purely a private inquiry. The gentleman 
is understood to be about to marry a wealthy widow, the 
lady’s male relatives don’t altogether take to the gentle- 
man, they fancy his antecedents are shady, and they have 
come to me to find out something about him. I’ve been 


142 


DRAMAS OF LIFE . 


shadowing him for a week past without any success, but 
to-night chance has come to my aid. Chance is bound 
to do our work if we’ll only give it time. Unfortunately, 
as a rule our clients are in a hurry. ” 

“ Then you have found out something from the lady? ” 

“Yes, she told me something herself, but she doesn’t 
know enough. She has, however, put me on the right 
road to find out a good deal more. I fancy I’m on the 
track of a pretty little plot for a novel, but if Mr. Hubert 
Zolway is what I suspect him to be, the novel ought to 
be written by a Frenchman, and sold in yellow covers on 
the Paris Boulevards. I don’t think Mudie’s would stand 
it. Good-night. ” 

I wished my detective good night, and we parted. 

It was a month before we met again. It was the first 
night of a new ballet at the Alhambra. After it was over 
I went up to M. Jacobi to congratulate him on his beau- 
tiful music, and he told me that M. Goron, the celebrated 
chief of the French detective force, was in his room. 
Would I come in and shake hands with him ? M. Goron 
had been excessively kind to me in Paris on more than 
one occasion, so I readily consented. 

In M. Jacobi’s room I found my old friend Jarvis. He 
and Goron, who was over here on business, were con- 
versing earnestly together, and as I entered I heard the 
name of Zolway mentioned. 

I stayed for some few minutes, while the conversation 
was general, and then I rose to leave. 

“Are you going to stay in the theatre ? ” said Jarvis. 

“ No,” I replied ; “ I’m going as far as the Strand.” 

“So am I. We’ll go together.” 

We went across the Stage, and out by the stage door 
into Shaftesbury Avenue. 

“ It’s very odd I should have met you to-night,” said 
Jarvis, as soon as we were outside in the street. “I was 
thinking of you just as you came in.” 


DRAMAS OF LIFE. 


143 


“Indeed.” 

“ Yes. You remember seeing that assault in Piccadilly 
Circus, and my telling you that I thought I was on the 
track of a plot for a novel ? ” 

“ You mean the Zolway affair ? ” 

“Yes. Well, since I saw you I’ve completed my in- 
quiries, and I have the gentleman’s dossier at my fingers’ 
end. Goron supplied me with the last link this evening, 
and the chain of evidence against the gentleman is com- 
plete. It’s a pretty strong one, too. I don’t think Sam- 
son and Sandow and all the strong men in Europe, if they 
tugged together, could break it.” 

“Have you sent in your report to your employers yet?” 

“ I take it to them to-morrow, and after I’ve read it to 
them, I don’t think they’ll be troubled much with Mr. 
Hubert Zolway. He’ll think twice before he marries into 
a family that knows so much about him. A pretty mar- 
riage it would have been, too, when the scoundrel has a 
wife and four children in America already. I can’t tell 
you any more now, because my task isn’t finished till my 
report is made, but if you like I’ll come and see you one 
morning this week, and lend you my notes. There’s no 
reason the scoundrel shouldn’t be exposed, and his story 
may be useful to you.” 

A few days later the “Dossier” of Mr, Hubert Zolway, 
the gentleman whose hat was knocked off in Regent 
street, was in my possession. 

It would be impossible for me here to give all the de- 
tails of the career of this chevalier d’amour , this squire of 
dames, this cavaliere servante, this professional compan- 
ion of wealthy women, this despoiler of the demi-monde. 

For years he had successfully plied his infamous pro- 
fession, and still been received in society. The silence 
of his victims was generally assured. They could only 
speak by betraying themselves. The one woman who 
did speak, and who said enough to put the celebrated 


144 


DRAMAS OF LIFE. 


detective on the right road to find out the rest, was the 
woman who knocked his hat off in Regent Street. He had 
despoiled her of £5,000, had taken her jewelry and sold 
up her home, and left her penniless. From a position of 
affluence she had come down to the streets through him, 
and, woman like, when she met him after a couple of 
years, she knocked his hat off, and treated him to a few 
objectionable, but richly-deserved epithets. 

From that starting-point the detective set out on his ex- 
ploration of the unknown history of Mr. Hubert Zolway’s 
career. 

“ You find Jenny Martin — she knows more about him 
than I do." 

That was the advice the Piccadilly circus lady gave Mr. 
Jarvis, and he at once set about trying to find Jenny Mar- 
tin. 

He inserted an advertisement in the Daily Telegraph , 
“ If Jenny Martin will communicate with so and so at 
such and such an address, she will hear of something to 
her advantage." 

The address given was Jarvis’s private one. A few 
days after the advertisement had appeared a clergyman 
called and sent up his card. The Reverend John Martin. 

The clergyman stated his business at once. 

“I have seen an advertisement," he said, “requesting 
information of the whereabouts of Jenny Martin. May I 
ask you for what purpose it is required ? " 

The detective hesitated. 

“ I don’t know that I am at liberty to tell you that," he 
said, “it is a purely private matter." 

“ I have a right to know," said the clergyman. “ Jenny 
Martin is my sister. " 

“ Your sister ! " stammered the detective. 

“Yes, my unhappy sister. You probably know some- 
thing of the poor misguided girl’s story." 

“A little.’’ 


DRAMAS OF LIFE. 


145 

i( It has been to me a lasting grief and shame. It broke 
her father’s heart, it killed her mother. Now I have told 
you so much, perhaps you will be frank with me. Why 
do you want to know where my sister is? ” 

“My dear sir,” said the detective, honestly moved by 
the young clergyman’s evident distress, “let me at once 
relieve your anxiety. Your sisters address is wanted 
that she may be asked a few questions about a man who 
goes by the name of Zolway — a man who I am led to be- 
lieve robbed her of her property and treated her infam- 
ously.” 

“ I know nothing of my sister’s affairs beyond the fact 
that she ran away from home to live under the protection 
of a nobleman ; that this man when he married behaved, 
as I suppose the world would say, handsomely — that he 
gave her a house and a large sum of money, and that she 
was robbed of everything by a scoundrel into whose 
clutches she fell. I presume this is the man you call 
Zolway. ” 

“ Yes — now will you not tell me where your sister is ? 
I will be frank with you. I am making these inquiries 
for the solicitors of a wealthy family. A member of it — 
a young widow — is infatuated with this fellow, and intends 
to marry him. Her family wish to save her from a worth- 
less adventurer and a contemptible scoundrel.” 

“I would rather, if you can do. without my sister’s ev- 
idence, that you did not disturb her mind, or recall the 
past to her at present,” said the clergyman, sadly. “She 
is now in a refuge — a refuge founded by a religious so- 
ciety and managed by Sisters of Mercy. Six months ago 
the poor girl, penniless and heartbroken, ashamed to let 
her friends know how low she had fallen, was standing 
by the river-side at Richmond. She had determined to 
commit suicide. While she was making up her mind to 
take the last desperate step, two Sisters of Mercy passed 
her. With a sudden impulse she turned to them. 

10 


146 


DRAMAS OF LIFE. 


“‘Ah!’ she cried, .‘you are Sisters of Mercy; have 
mercy upon me. Save me from myself — save me from 
death.'” 

These good women were struck with pity and compas- 
sion. They took her with them to the Home, and there 
she has been ever since. She who was highly-educated, 
a beautiful, high-spirited, lovable girl is now working as 
a servant there. It is part of the system, I am told. I 
would have taken her to my home, to be with my wife 
and my children, for I love my sister still, but I fear for 
her. At the Home she is guarded, tended, strengthened 
in her good resolution. The good women who have her 
in their care beg me not to remove her yet — not to let 
her be disturbed by news or visits from the outer world 
until her redemption is assured. This advertisement 
alarmed me. I feared it might be some one belonging to 
her troubled past who was seeking for her. Now may I 
ask that you will respect her sorrow and her shame and 
abandon your idea of questioning her about the past. 

“Certainly,” replied the detective. “I heartily sym- 
pathize with you and with her. I have only ope thing 
more to ask you. Did you ever see the man who robbed 
and deserted your sister ? ” 

“Yes. I saw him once. I had found out where she 
was living, and I went to her to see if I could not induce 
her to give up the life, she was leading. The man was 
there, and he refused to allow me to see my sister ! ” 

The detective took from his pocket a photograph of 
Hubert Zolway and showed it to the Rev. John Martin. 

“That is the man,” said the clergyman, “ but I beg, I 
implore you, if your inquiries should lead to a public 
trial, to spare me. You must know what it would mean 
to me to stand up in a public court and tell the story of 
my sister’s life.” 

“ I give my Word of honor, that whatever the result of 
my inquiries may be you shall not be dragged into it,” 
replied the detective. 


DRAMAS OF LIFE . 


147 

The clergyman took the detective’s hand in his and 
pressed it gratefully, and went sorrowfully away. 

But he had left the detective in possession of one more 
chapter in the terrible Romance of London Life of which 
Hubert Zolway was the hero, or rather I should say, the 
villain. 

An anonymous letter gave the detective the clue he had 
to follow up to add another chapter to what he called his 
“realistic novel.” He followed it, and found that Mr. 
Hubert Zolway, after he had squandered the last farthing 
of Jenny Martin’s money, enlisted the sympathy of a 
wealthy American lady who employed him to make pur- 
chases for her in the Art world. He managed so thor- 
oughly to win her confidence that in six months she had 
parted on one pretext or another with over £5,000. This 
sum, it was understood, was to rescue her interesting pro- 
tege from a terrible pecuniary embarrassment which was 
hanging over him and embittering his life. 

Having obtained this £5,000 he was perhaps not so 
careful as he should have been, and in some mysterious 
way a letter of a private and confidential nature, written 
by the lady to him, fell into other hands, and the lady 
was compelled to consult her solicitors, as the mysterious 
possessor of it demanded an enormous sum for its return, 
and threatened to make use of it unless the demand was 
complied with. 

How the matter ended the detectives failed to find out. 
The solicitors refused to give him any information, but he 
ascertained that a month later that elegant and fascinating 
gentleman with the gray moustache had transferred his 
services to another patroness, an eccentric old lady of 
title, who was fully persuaded that he had been infa- 
mously used, and who was on the point of adopting him 
as her son and making a will in his favor, when she was 
taken seriously ill one day and had to send for a doctor. 


148 


DRAMAS OF LIFE . 


Her regular medical attendant having been called away 
to an urgent case in the country, the servant went to 
another doctor. Here again chance shuffled the cards 
and altered the game. The doctor was shown into the 
library, and there saw Mr. Hubert Zolway. The men 
* recognized each other, but their greeting was not cordial. 

' When the footman opened the door to ask the doctor 
to walk upstairs to his mistress’s room, he was astonished 
to hear these extraordinary words falling from the doctor’s 
lips : 

‘•'You villain, what right have you in any decent 

person’s house? ” 

The doctor was standing up by the library table, ges- 
ticulating fiercely, and Mr. Hubert Zolway was up against 
the door, nervously twisting his elegant military gray 
moustache. 

The doctor remained some time with the invalid old 
lady. After satisfying himself that she was suffering from 
a slight attack of liver complaint, he plunged at once into 
the subject which was uppermost in his mind. 

What was the man downstairs doing in her house, and 
did she know his character? 

The old lady, expecting she was going to hear her poor 
injured protege vilified again over the wealthy American 
lady business, protested that she had heard the scandal, 
but she had reason to know that poor Mr. Zolway was 
the victim of cruel and jealous misrepresentation. 

“Victim,” exclaimed the doctor, “good God, madam, 
do you know what you are saying. Why, I attended the 
poor girl in her last illness.” 

“ Girl ! ” exclaimed the old lady. “ Why, she’s fifty if 
she’s a day, and she’s alive. I saw her in the Park, 
yesterday. ” 

The doctor saw that there was a misunderstanding, and 
he made haste to explain. 

“Madam, ’ he said, “ If I speak plainly you must for- 


DRAMAS OF LIFE . 


149 

give me, but it is my duty as I find that scoundrel here 
in your house, and evidently enjoying your confidence, 
to tell you what I know of him. Three years ago he 
visited at the house of a patient of mine, an officers 
widow, with a young daughter, a beautiful girl. The 
wretch in some way or other gained the confidence of 
the mother, I believe he absolutely proposed marriage to 
her, and was admitted to her house as an honored guest. 
I'm not going to tell you the whole horrible story, but I’ll 
tell you this, that he mercilessly betrayed and ruined the 
girl, and she died of shame and a broken heart, and 
when she was dying the unhappy mother, agonized with 
grief, learned that she herself had been infamously duped 
and robbed by her daughter’s betrayer. He had induced 
her to let him manage her financial affairs, he had ob- 
tained her authority to sell her securities, and invest her 
money to pay her a larger percentage, and when the 
crash came she learnt that the new securities he had 
handed her were worthless rubbish, and that she had 
been swindled. You'll say if this is true, why didn't she 
prosecute. Why, because she would have had to drag 
herself through the mire — to tell the story of her dead 
daughter’s shame. This is the reason that villains like 
the dastard downstairs prey upon society and go scot-free. 
Their victims for their own sakes, and for the sake of 
those dear to them, hesitate to publish their humiliation 
to the world.” 

“Now, madam,” exclaimed the excited and indignant 
doctor, “perhaps you’ll ring the bell and order your foot- 
man to kick that fellow out. If you don’t like to ask him, 
ask me.” 

Mr. Hubert Zolway, once more the victim of what he 
called “atrocious calumny,” that afternoon bade adieu to 
his adopted mother forever, and it was the doctor who 
had the satisfaction of adding this chapter to the dossier 
which the detective was compiling. 


DRAMAS OF LIFE . 


150 

But once more the famous Chevalier fell upon his feet. 
He went to recruit his shattered nerves at Scarborough, 
and he made the acquaintance of the young widow, at 
the instigation of whose male relatives my friend Jarvis 
started his inquiries. Matters progressed so favorably, 
that the lady was on the point of leaving for the Con- 
tinent where she was to be united to her fascinating 
adorer, when just in the nick of time the true story of 
the life and adventures of her hero was handed to her 
brother, a big burly Yorkshireman, who didn’t mince his 
words or study his actions. 

Armed with the dossier of his future brother-in-law he 
went to his sister’s house, and though she raved and 
fainted and had hysterics and screamed and put her 
fingers in her ears, he stood with his back to the door and 
read it through, every word of it at the top of his voice 
not sparing her a single detail, (I have spared the reader 
a good many, because this is not France and I am not 
M. Zola or M. Dubut de Laforest), and finishing up by 
informing her that if she ever spoke to Mr. Zolway again 
he would break his neck and lock her up in a lunatic 
asylum. 

He then went off to Mr. Zolway’s chambers and found 
that gentleman was not at home. So he left a note. Mr. 
Zolway evidently received it, for he didn’t call on the un- 
happy widow but took the evening mail for Paris and is 
now, according to the latest accounts, amusing himself at 
Monte Carlo, where it is rumored he has acquired ex- 
traordinary influence over a Russian Princess whose 
husband is in a lunatic asylum. 

That is the true story, as far as I dare tell it, of a 
gentleman who until lately was a conspicuous figure in 
high-class society. His career is probably not ended, 
but there are reasons which will probably cause the 
remaining acts of his extraordinary life drama to be 
played on a foreign stage- 


DRAMAS OF LIFE . 


51 


There are doubtless dozens of people who will rehd 
these papers who will recognize in Mr. Hubert Zolway 
the man he is intended to represent. If he recognizes the 
portrait himself he will probably mutter something about 
an action for libel. But he will only mutter. He won't 
talk very loudly about it, especially when he remembers 
that his dossier is now complete, and that it is in the 
hands of those who know how to make good use of it. 


A BIJOU RESIDENCE. 


It was described in the house agent’s circular as a com- 
pact little semi-detached bijou residence, with long gar- 
den and charmingly situated. As a matter of fact it was a 
six-roomed villa, ugly, dismal, low-ceilinged and damp. 
The long garden was in a neglected, chaotic state, and 
consisted principally of weeds, rubbish, and sooty, de- 
jected trees. It was situated in one of those lonely by- 
roads of St. John’s Wood, which even in the broadest day- 
light wear an air of mystery, audit had been in the agent’s 
hands for over twelve months. 

One autumn afternoon a tall, dark young man, of about 
two and thirty, who wore a small black moustache curled 
up at the ends, paused in front of the “Villa,” and read 
the notice board, which was stuck up on the front gate, 
attentively. 

“To let, with immediate possession. For particulars 
apply to Messrs. Brown and Co. , House and Estate Agents 
Wellington-road, St. John’s Wood.” 

“Quiet place, that,” the gentleman muttered to himself. 
“Wonder what it’s like inside.” 

It was impossible to see anything from the roadway 
but the top part of the villa. 

A high wall, surmounted by trellis work thickly over- 
grown with ivy, completely shut out the vulgar gaze ; 
and the front garden gate, by which access was obtained, 
was a solid door, with a little square flap let into it, which 
could only be opened from the inside. 


DRAMAS OF LIFE. 


153 

The gentleman, after examining the exterior of the house 
carefully, walked up and down the narrow retired little 
road, and appeared to be studying it carefully. Although 
it was four o’clock in the afternoon all was as still as death. 
All the villas on either side were of a retiring disposition, 
and high walls and tall trees completely hid the modest 
inhabitants from observation. 

“ This is the very place/' muttered the man to himself. 
“I wonder what the name of it is.” 

He walked up to the corner, and then found the name 
written up. He drew out his pocket-book and made a 
note. “ Laburnham Road, St. John's Wood; The Re- 
treat. ” The Retreat was the name which some former 
owner had given to the eligible villa, and it was still 
painted up above the garden door. 

The next day a gentleman giving the name of Mr. 
Thomas Smith called upon the house agents, and made 
inquiries as to the rent of the eligible bijou residence, and 
requested to be allowed to look over it. 

A clerk was sent to accompany him with the keys, and 
Mr. Thomas Smith carefully inspected the premises. 

The house stood in a long dilapidated garden, some dis- 
tance from the roadway. It was very quiet, very gloomy 
looking, and slightly out of repair. 

Mr. Thomas Smith having inspected the rooms took a 
stroll round the garden. He noticed the trees on either 
side completely shut out the view of the neighbors, and 
that at the end of the garden was similarly protected. 

As soon as he had completed his observations, he asked 
the agent’s clerk how long the place had been empty. 

“About twelve months, sir,” was the reply. 

“ Anything against it ? ” 

“Not that I know of. You see it’s rather small, and 
that’s what we think has prevented it’s letting, but it might 
be made a very pretty little place.” 

“Yes, it might,” replied Mr, Thomas Smith, thought- 


154 


DRAMAS OF LIFE . 


fully. “ I'll think about it and let you know my decision. 
By-the-by, what’s the rent ? ” 

“Very moderate, sir; only £45 a year.” 

The house agents saw nothing further of Mr. Thomas 
Smith for three days. On the fourth day he called at the 
office and expressed himself willing to take the house for 
seven years, provided they would accept a lump sum of 
£250 down. 

They promised to consult the owner of the property, 
and Mr. Thomas Smith gave his address at the Langham 
Hotel. He explained that he was an American, that he 
was returning to America to fetch his wife to London, 
where he intended to settle. As no one knew him in Lon- 
don it would save the trouble and delay of writing out 
to America for references and all that sort of thing if he 
paid in cash and relieved the landlord of all anxiety in the 
matter. 

The agents knew that the property was a bad one to let, 
that it was not in good repair, and that it would require a 
good deal of money laid out upon it to put it in a proper 
sanitary condition, and they thought the offer a good one. 

A lease was prepared and signed, and on the appointed 
day Mr. Thomas Smith, in exchange for Bank of England 
notes for £250, became the tenant of that charming bijou 
residence known as the Retreat, Laburnham Road, St. 
John’s Wood, and the keys were handed over to him. 

He expressed himself quite satisfied with his bargain, 
and was very communicative with regard to his future 
plans. 

He was going to lay out money on the place, and he 
didn’t think he should begin the painting and decoration 
until next spring, as he wouldn’t furnish it until his return 
from America with his wife. 

Mr. Thomas Smith was evidently pleased, the agents 
were pleased, and the landlord was delighted. He had 
begun to think that he would have his bijou residence on 


DRAMAS OF LIFE . 


155 


his hands until it committed suicide by falling; to pieces, 
a thing it had been threatening to do for some time past. 

You see these villas are mostly built to let, and the 
tenant is expected to prop them up in order to keep a 
roof over his head. When they don’t let, and there is no 
tenant, the landlord has the terrible alternative of seeing 
them crumble to earth, or spending money on his own 
property, which is a thing no well-regulated landlord 
will do if he can help it. 

Mr. Thomas Smith, the new proprietor of the Retreat, 
paid one or two visits to his property, accompanied by a 
man who looked like a builder. They would let them- 
selves in, remain some time on the premises, and then 
come out and walk away conversing earnestly together. 

Laburnham Road is not one of those roads in which 
the neighbors take much interest in each other. The 
postman must occasionally go down it, and the milkman, 
and the butcher, and the baker, but I have passed through 
it scores of times without seeing a living soul. And now 
I come to think of it, I don’t ever remember to have seen 
a face at any of the upper windows (the lower ones are 
all hidden by the high garden walls), or a servant at the 
door, which, seeing that it is within half a mile of the 
Barracks, is remarkable. 

The people who take houses in it evidently seek it on 
account of its quiet and seclusion from observation. 

Mr. Thomas Smith (of America) was evidently not too 
desirous of attracting attention as a new-comer, for his 
visits were always paid in the dusk of the evening, and 
whether he came by himself or accompanied by the man 
who looked like a builder he usually looked cautiously 
up and down the road before he let himself in. 

One afternoon just as it was dusk he came down the 
Laburnham Road accompanied by a lady. They were 
walking arm-in-arm and chatting together in the most 
amiable manner possible. 


DRAMAS OF LIFE. 


156 

Outside the “ Retreat ” they halted for a moment while 
Mr. Thomas Smith felt in his pocket for the key. 

“ It’s quiet enough here, Charles,” said the lady as she 
glanced about her. 

“Yes, dear, you might live here for years and nobody 
would know you. Not much fear of our being over- 
looked by our neighbors.” 

The key had been found and the garden door was 
open. 

The lady gave a little cry as she caught sight of the 
eligible villa. 

“Oh, dear, what a tumble-down place — why, it looks 
as if it were haunted.” 

“You see it at its worst, Jennie. Of course, it will 
want a lot of doing up, but if it suits you I can make a 
charming little place of it. These places never look at 
their best on a dull winter’s afternoon, you know. Come 
in and see the rooms.” 

The lady passed into the garden and the door closed 
behind her. 

An hour later, when the last vestige of daylight had 
gone, a man came quietly along Laburnham Road — it 
was the man who looked like a builder, and who had 
accompanied Mr. Thomas Smith to the “Retreat” on 
several previous occasions. 

He halted in front of the house, and gently pulled the 
bell. 

A moment or two afterwards a footstep was heard on 
the gravel path inside — then the flap in the centre of the 
door was lifted, and a man’s white face was seen peering 
out in the darkness. 

The builder-looking man was the first to speak. 

“Is it done ? ” he said. 

“Yes,” was the reply. 

Then the door was opened quietly, and the “builder” 
man passed in. 


DRAMAS OF LIFE. 


157 

Half an hour later the little flap was lifted once more, 
and again a face was seen to be pressed against it. 

It was the face of a man listening intently to hear if 
there was the sound of anyone moving on the pavement 
outside. 

All was still as death. 

The door opened and two men emerged. They were 
Mr. Thomas Smith (of America), and the “builder. ” 

Mr. Thomas Smith pulled the front door to quietly as they 
passed out, then pushed it with his hand to make sure the 
lock had caught. The two men separated without a word, 
one going one way and one the other. 

Where was the lady ? 

Twelvemonths after the taking of the “Retreat,” a 
broad-shouldered, burly-looking man presented himself at 
Scotland Yard and desired to see one of the officials. He 
was taken to the Inspector on duty, and he made the fol- 
lowing statement : — 

“My name is Richard Marleigh. On the 18th of De- 
cember last I assisted to bury the body of a woman who 
had been murdered at a house in St. John’s Wood. I 
wish to give myself into custody.” 

Further interrogated he declined to give any informa- 
tion except that he w T ould show the police where the body 
was concealed. 

The man was rather peculiar in his manner, and the 
inspector at once had a suspicion that he was listening to 
one of those self-accusations so common with people 
whose minds are affected — accusations of crimes which 
exist only in the disordered mind of the narrator. 

However, it was his duty to make a complete investi- 
gation, so he pressed for further particulars. 

“Who was the murdered woman — who murdered her, 
and where was the body buried ? ” 

“ I decline to implicate anyone but myself,” the man 


DRAMAS OF LIFE. 


I 5 S 

replied. “It is on my conscience, and I cannot rest. I 
had £500 for my share of the transaction, but it did me no 
good. I have been a miserable wretch ever since, and I 
want to be taken into custody and undergo my punish- 
ment. Even if it is death it cannot be more terrible than 
the torture of mind which I am enduring now.” 

Finding the man obstinately refused to name his ac- 
complice or to go into details, the Inspector thought the 
best thing was to humor him, and allow him, at least, to 
point out where the body was concealed. 

So he told the man he might consider himself in cus- 
tody, and requested him to take them at once to the scene 
of the murder. 

“The body is buried in the garden of a little house 
called ‘The Retreat/ in Laburnham-Road, St. John’s 
Wood,” said the man. “I will go with you now and 
point out the spot. ” 

This looked more like business, and the Inspector, call- 
ing a Sergeant to accompany them, took a cab, and the 
party drove at once to the house in question. 

On ringing the bell it was opened by a decent-looking, 
middle-aged woman, who was evidently terribly alarmed 
at seeing the Sergeant in uniform with Mr. Marleigh. 

“Oh, Richard, what have you done? ” she exclaimed. 

The Inspector uttered a few reassuring commonplaces. 
“ Don’t be alarmed, madam,” he said. “ This gentleman 
is your husband, I suppose ? ” 

“Yes, sir, he is.” 

Leaving the Sergeant in charge of the self-accused pris- 
oner, the Inspector took Mrs. Marleigh a little on one 
side. 

“Now, madam,” he said, “if you will answer me a 
few questions it may save a good deal of trouble. Is your 
husband in his right mind? v 

“Well, sir,” replied the woman, hesitating, and the 
tears coming into her eyes, “sometimes I’m afraid he 


DRAMAS OF LIFE. 


159 

isn’t. Ever since we’ve lived in this house, nearly a year 
now, he’s had the queerest fancies about ghosts and being 
haunted, and he’s been restless and queer as though 
there were something on his mind.” 

“Thank you,” said the Inspector, “that will do for 
the present. We’re just going out in the grounds to look 
about — just to humor him, you know. I think you’d 
better remain indoors.” 

Then he went into the hall, and beckoning the Ser- 
geant to bring the prisoner along, the three men passed 
into the garden. 

“Now,” said the Inspector, “whereabouts do you say 
that the body is buried? ” 

“There,” exclaimed the man, pointing with a trembling 
finger in the direction of a pear tree. “There, just under 
the pear tree. But don’t let me stop here to see it brought 
to light. For God’s sake don’t. I couldn’t look upon that 
poor girl’s face again. I would rather die.” 

“Very well ; Sergeant go indoors with him, and don’t 
let him communicate with anybody till I return.” 

The Sergeant and the prisoner w r ent into the house, and 
the Inspector went out to get assistance in digging up 
the ground. A few doors up he saw some workmen 
busy relaying the drains of a house. They were hard 
at work with their spades and pickaxes. 

A word to the foreman, and half-a-dozen of them 
accompanied him to the “Retreat.” They set to work 
and dug diligently all round the pear tree. “This 
place has been dug out before and filled up,” said the 
foreman. 

Yes, the Inspector could see that, and he at once came 
to the conclusion that he was on the track of an un- 
known crime after all. But the men came upon no 
body ; they dug and they dug deep. 

Presently the foreman looked up. “ Where we’ve got 
to now,” he said, “has never been dug before. There’s 


i6o 


DA' A MAS OF LIFE . 


nothing lying under here. You can see for yourself, it’s 
all solid clay here.” 

The men stopped in their labor — one of them in 
shovelling the loose earth away from the side struck 
something with his spade. 

“What’s that?” said the Inspector, “a stone?” The 
man stooped down and felt in the loose earth with his 
hands. 

“No,” he exclaimed. “It isn’t a stone — It’s some- 
thing gold.” 

Covered with mud and dirt, he drew out a circular 
object, and handed it to the Inspector. 

It was a woman’s gold bracelet. 

“That’s curious, at any rate,” thought the Inspector to 
himself. 

Then he ordered the man to dig on and to dig all 
round. 

They dug right and left, but there was no trace of a 
body, not the slightest indication of the ground having 
been hollowed out except in the spot where the bracelet 
was found. 

After two hours’ hard work the Inspector told the men 
to stop for the present, and he went indoors to the 
prisoner. 

‘ ‘ There’s no body under the pear tree, ” he said. 1 ‘Have 
you made a mistake in the place ? ” 

“No,” replied Richard Marleigh. “I tell you it is there. 

I helped to bury it myself.” 

“ Come with me and point out the place again.” 

The prisoner w r ent into the garden with the Sergeant 
and the Inspector. 

He looked in amazement and terror at the great cavity 
the workmen had left. 

“Good God!” he cried, “what does it mean?” It 
was there we buried her — there, and nowhere else. I 
swear it. Do you think the accursed spot isn’t graven on 


DRAMAS OF LIFE . 


1 6 1 

my memory? Do you think I haven’t watched it night 
and day, expecting her to rise up out of her grave and 
accuse me ? ” 

“ Well,” replied the Inspector, “ there’s no body there 
now, that’s a certainty. Come, was it further to the left, 
do you think, or further to the right ? ” 

“ No, it was there, under the pear tree.” 

The Inspector was completely nonplussed. The dis- 
covery of the bracelet he said nothing to the prisoner 
about, for reasons of his own ; but the bracelet had 
evidently been buried there, and there was evidence that 
the ground had been dug into in just such a way as a 
grave would be made. The digging out was not deep. 
The bracelet had been found in the loose earth near the 
surface ; but, taking these facts, together with the man’s 
persistent statement that a year previously he had helped 
to bury a body there, there was sufficient prima facie 
evidence of a crime having been committed. 

But where was the body ? 

Had it been removed by someone unknown to Richard 
Marleigh ? 

That was the only solution to the puzzle which pre- 
sented itself to the Inspector, and on that assumption he 
determined to act. 

He took his prisoner back in custody and determined 
to charge him on his own confession. The publicity 
given to the details might lead to information being 
received from other quarters. 

He also engaged workmen, and had the garden 
thoroughly dug out under the superintendence of the 
police. 

And then, armed with the bracelet, he proceeded to 
make what inquiries he could, as the man obstinately 
refused either to give the name of the woman he declared 
had been murdered, or to implicate anyone else in the 
transaction. 


ii 


1 62 


DRAMAS OF LIFE. 


The first thing he did that very afternoon was to ascer- 
tain who had let the house, and to go the agents. 

From them he learned that a year previously a Mr. 
Thomas Smith, giving an address at the Langham Hotel, 
had taken the house for seven years, and paid a large 
sum for it in bank notes. 

This Mr. Thomas Smith did not answer the description 
of the present tenant, Richard Marleigh, in any one 
particular. 

Mr. Thomas Smith had possession given to him, and 
was the nominal tenant. It must have been Mr. Thomas 
Smith who gave the house over to Marleigh. Where was 
he, and was he the murderer — if the murder had really 
taken place. 

Inquiries at the Langham were not satisfactory. There 
had been a good many Smiths staying there in Decem- 
ber, three of them from America. 

But the chances were that the hirer of the “ Retreat” 
had given a false address. The agents remembered, 
when they thought over the transaction, that there had 
been no correspondence ; that Thomas Smith had simply 
requested them to get a lease prepared and he would call 
and settle the matter at the office on a certain day. 

That clue, therefore, was a very shadowy one. 

The next thing was to ascertain if any young woman 
was missing from her home last December, and then to 
see if any of the friends could identify the bracelet. 

It was on the bracelet that the Inspector relied to put 
him on the right track. 

Inquiries were also at once instituted with regard to 
Richard Marleigh. These were obtained, easy enough, 
but were not of much value to the police. 

Richard Marleigh had been a builder. Two years ago 
he had failed in business, principally owing to his gam- 
bling propensities. He had neglected his business for 
racing, of which he was passionately fond, and in his 


DRAMAS OF LIFE. 


163 

bankruptcy he attributed his failure to losses on the turf. 

Everything had gone to his creditors, and he had been 
compelled to take a situation with another firm. He was a 
better master than servant, and his salary was not a large 
one. 

But a year ago his circumstances improved. He had 
taken possession of the Retreat, and furnished it, and a 
friend to whom he owed £100 confessed that he had paid 
him the amount since his bankruptcy. 

The friend thought he had won it by betting. The In- 
spector was now inclined to think that it was part of the 
sum he had been paid for his share in the crime of which 
he accused himself. 

Richard Marleigh was duly placed in the dock and 
charged on his own confession with having on the night 
of the 1 8th of December, 188 — , been a party to the 
murder of a woman unknown — according to his own 
statement an accessory after the fact. 

Such evidence as it was thought advisable to make 
public the police tendered, sufficient to obtain a remand. 
The prisoner persisted in his statement, but still obsti- 
nately refused to name the actual murderer, or to give the 
slightest glue to the woman’s identity. 

But for the finding of the woman’s bracelet the man 
would probably have been discharged on the ground that 
he was the victim of a delusion, especially as the police 
surgeon was strongly inclined to the belief that the man’s 
mind was affected. It was certain that for some time 
past he had drunk heavily, and self-accusation of fearful 
crimes is not an unknown feature of confirmed alcoholism. 

The story, directly it got into the newspapers, attracted 
a great deal of attention, and the police were, as usual, in- 
undated with applications from persons who had missing 
friends. It is marvellous what a number of people an- 
nually disappear in England, of whom all trace is lost, 
and whose friends never communicate with the police 
until a body is found which cannot be identified. 


DRAMAS OF LIFE. 


164 

The album of the Unknown Dead which is kept at 
Scotland Yard is one of the grimmest and most terrible 
features of our modern civilization. Who are these men 
and women, old and young, whom nobody misses, whom 
nobody can identify, who are found dead, some victims 
of the cold-blooded assassin, some suicides, some poor 
wretches who have dropped down to die, or been seized 
with a fatal illness in the streets of the Great City, some 
the victims of accident, but nearly all buried at last as 
“ unknown,” their ghastly features preserved in that book 
of photographic horror which from time to time is opened 
that an inquirer after a missing friend may search for the 
absent one’s features in the ghastly collection of London’s 
myriad mysteries. 

Hundreds of people wrote to, or called at Scotland 
Yard, to say that they had lost a relation and to suggest 
that the murdered person whose body could not be found, 
might be their lost one. The fact that it was a young 
woman who was supposed to have been murdered did not 
deter inquirers calling to suggest that it might be their 
grandfather who went out for a walk some years ago and 
never returned, or their daughter, aged ten who had not 
been seen since she went to school one morning, or their 
husband, who disappeared mysteriously twenty years ago. 

There is absolutely no limit to the idiocy of the people 
who communicate with the police directly anything is 
found, whether it be a human body, or a dog, or a bank 
note. 

I remember once losing my poor old dog Pickle (peace 
to her memory) and putting up a bill offering £5 reward 
for her recovery. I described her fully as a small black- 
and-tan bitch, and yet within forty-eight hours I have 
every kind of dog brought to my door, ragged little boys 
brought me retrievers by the dozen, a clergyman kindly 
called with a Newfoundland dog, a lady came round with 
a pug puppy, and a kind old gentleman walked five miles 


DRAMAS OF LIFE 


165 

with a greyhound which he had found in his back garden. 

So it is with the police notices. Common sense seems 
to be the one thing lacking in the people who tender in- 
formation, or come to identify bodies. One body will 
sometimes be claimed by half a dozen people, although 
not bearing the slightest resemblance to the person they 
have lost. These people, who worry and bother the 
authorities, seem to argue in this way. My grandfather 
is missing, the body of a youth of eighteen has been found 
— the youth of eighteen must be my missing grandfather. 
I am not exaggerating the case. Ask the police and 
they will tell you that I am rather understating it. 

Hundreds of people came forward to tell wonderful 
stories, intended to prove that the unknown young woman 
whom Richard Marleigh had assisted to bury in a back 
garden was a missing relative of theirs, but not one of 
them could give the slightest information to assist the 
police, and not one of them could identify the bracelet, 
which, unfortunately, was an ordinary gold one, such as 
are sold by jewellers every day. 

At the end of a month, there being absolutely no further 
clue, and most of the ‘‘missing friends” having been 
discovered by the police to be well and happy, and keep- 
ing out of the way, for reasons of their own, or absolutely 
outside the description of the ** well-dressed young lady” 
given by the self-accused accessory to the murder, 
Richard Marleigh, was discharged, the police considering 
it would serve their purpose to keep him under observation. 

There was nobody in the back garden, and you can’t 
imprison a man for burying a bracelet. 

But, though Marleigh was discharged, the police did not 
let their inquiries drop. 

The Inspector who had charge of the case having failed 
to get anybody to identify the bracelet, was still busily 
engaged in endeavoring to find Mr. Thomas Smith, the 
gentleman who took a seven years’ lease of the Retreat, 


1 66 


DRAMAS OF LIFE . 


and had failed to come forward and explain under what 
circumstances he sub-let it or presented it to Marleigh. 

“ Do you believe there ever was a murder at all ? ” said 
a friend to the Inspector as they talked over the. case. 

“I don't know what to think,” replied the Inspector. 
** The bracelet was there, the signs of a grave having been 
dug were there.” 

‘"But where's the body ? ” 

“ Exactly — where’s the body and where is Mr. Thomas 
Smith ? ” 

The mystery of the Bijou residence engaged the attention 
of the Scotland Yard Inspector for a long time after it had 
passed out of the public mind. There was a certain element 
of romance in the self-accusation, the digging up of the 
garden and the finding of the gold bracelet, which appealed 
for a time to the newspaper readers’ imagination ; but 
directly Richard Marleigh was discharged, the general idea 
was that it was a case of hallucination or incipient D. T. , 
and that there never had been a body in the garden. The 
bracelet was certainly a curious thing to find on the spot, 
but that might have got there by accident. 

A murder was discovered soon afterwards, one of the 
floating mysteries of the Thames, and in the new excite- 
ment the St. John's Wood mystery passed out of public 
discussion, and breathed its last after the allotted space of 
nine days. 

But Mr. Inspector by no means relaxed his efforts to 
obtain a clue to an enigma which fairly puzzled him, and 
put him on his professional metal. He kept the house and 
its occupants well under police supervision, and devoted 
all his efforts to tracing the American, or soi-disant 
American, who had hired the house and paid a lump sum 
in advance for it. 

This struck the Inspector as suspicious. It looked as 
though Mr. Thomas Smith was anxious not to be identified. 
In the ordinary course of business he would have given 


DRAMAS OF LIFE. 


1 67 

references, and had the correspondence concerning the 
lease forwarded to him, and he would have employed a 
solicitor. 

The officer’s theory was that if — there was always the 
if — a crime had been committed, the house had been hired 
for the purpose of the murder, and the victim had been 
buried in the garden before the place was occupied by 
Marleigh and his wife. 

All this was, however, nothing but theory, and it would 
be impossible to advance beyond until either the body or 
the murderer was discovered. 

With regard to the body, the only solution of the diffi- 
culty that presented itself to the Inspector was that it had 
been removed. Bodies are found about London, in cellars 
and arches, which have evidently been dead a long time, 
but only recently deposited there. Some of the most 
startling mysteries of the year 1889 are connected with the 
finding of murdered people who have been deposited in 
out-of-the-way places months after the crime was com- 
mitted. 

But in the St. John’s Wood case it was difficult to see 
why a body once buried under such advantageous cir- 
cumstances should be removed. The murderer would 
have everything to lose and nothing to gain by such a 
course. And yet the bracelet might in that way have been 
left behind, always supposing that the poor creature was 
buried, and she was murdered with her clothes and orna- 
ments still about her. 

Had the body been shifted from one part of the garden 
to another? 

No! 

Every inch of the ground had been thoroughly dug over 
and explored. 

While prosecuting his inquiries right and left for the 
missing Mr. Thomas Smith, the inspector labored under a 
great disadvantage. The only description of the man he 


1 68 


DRAMAS OF LIFE . 


had was that furnished by the house agent’s clerk, and this 
was rather general than particular. To find a tall, dark 
man, with black hair and a small, dark moustache, is easy 
enough ; the difficulty is that you find such a number of 
them. 

He had communicated with the American police, who 
replied : “Send further particulars.” But these were just 
what he couldn’t obtain himself. 

But one day he received a visit from the house agent’s 
clerk. 

The clerk was in a state of great excitement. “ I don’t 
know whether this is any use to you,” he said, taking out 
a torn leaf of an illustrated paper, “ but this is awfully like 
the gentleman who took the ‘Retreat,’ only he hadn’t a 
beard. ” 

The inspector took the paper and looked at the portrait 
intently. 

“ It knocked me all of a heap when I saw it first,” said 
the clerk. “The oddest part of the thing is the queer way 
it came into my possession. I went to a party at a friend’s 
house the other night, and as it was at Norwood, and I 
couldn’t get home without leaving too early, I arranged to 
stay all night. I took my bag with me, and in the hurry 
of leaving I left my slippers behind me. Two days 
afterwards my friend returned them to me, and they were 
wrapped in this page of newspaper.” 

“ It’s an illustrated American paper,” said the inspector. 
“ Is your friend an American ? ” 

“No, but his brother is in New York, and he sends 
them an illustrated paper every week.” 

“ And you say this is a likeness of Mr. Thomas Smith, 
who took the Retreat ? ” 

“ No, I don’t say that. I say that the upper part of the 
face is exactly like him; there is a look which brought 
him to my mind at once, but the beard hides the lower 
part, and he wore no beard.” 


DRAMAS OF LIFE. 


169 

“But he might have grown one since. Well, that’s 
something to go upon, but not much. We’ll see what it’s 
worth.” 

The clerk left the paper with the inspector, who at once 
went systematically to work. 

The portrait was that of Mr. Charles Goldberg, of 
Chicago, and the letterpress described him briefly as the 
Chairman of Mr. So-and-So’s Copimittee. It was a political 
event that had called forth the portrait, and all that the 
inspector could gather from the letterpress was that Mr. 
Goldberg was a wealthy citizen of Chicago. 

He at once wrote out to the American police and 
requested a little information, at the same time referring 
them to the paper in question, and telling them that the 
portrait bore a slight resemblance to the man he had 
inquired about, Mr. Thomas Smith. 

In due course the answer of the American police was 
received. Mr. Charles Goldberg was an American, he 
was tall and dark, and his age was about thirty-three. 
He had only assumed the name of Goldberg some six 
months previously on his marriage with Miss Ada Gold- 
berg, the only daughter and heiress of Mr. Heinrich 
Goldberg, a wealthy merchant of Chicago. His name 
was Charles Dickson. He was the young lady’s cousin, 
and had adopted the name at the request of the father. 
On Goldberg senior’s death all his property passed to his 
daughter and son-in-law. From inquiries the American 
police had made they had ascertained that Mr. Charles 
Goldberg had been in England for three years, but had 
returned to the States some little time previous to his 
marriage. He had only grown his beard lately after a 
severe attack of bronchitis. There was nothing known 
against him in America, except that at one time, before 
he left for England, he had been involved in some heavy 
gambling transactions, and it was understood that this . 
was why he left his uncle’s office and was temporarily 


DRAMAS OF LIFE. 


170 

out of the old mans favor. It was understood that 
when old Goldberg was dying he sent a large sum of 
money to his nephew and requested him to return and 
marry his daughter and carry on the business. 

This information required to be digested. It might 
mean a great deal, it might mean nothing. Certain por- 
tions of it undoubtedly fitted in with the theory of Mr. 
Goldberg of Chicago, being the Mr. Thomas Smith of 
America, who took the “ Retreat.” 

Mr. Goldberg was in London at that time — at any rate 
he was not in America. 

Mr. Goldberg had only recently cultivated the beard 
which destroyed a portion of his resemblance to Mr. 
Thomas Smith. 

Mr. Smith had mentioned that he was returning to 
America, and intended to bring his wife back with him. 

Mr. Goldberg had returned to America and had taken 
unto himself a wife. 

Mr. Goldberg had been a gambler, and left his uncle's 
office through his gambling propensities. Richard Mar- 
leigh was a gambler. Gamblers frequently get thrown 
together and become accomplices in nefarious schemes, 
and there the Inspector halted for a short rest. 

Supposing that it was Mr. Charles Goldberg who took 
the Retreat, and lured a young woman into it to be mur- 
dered, what could his motive be ? 

Hardly robbery. 

Then he took this fact ; that within six months of the 
period assigned by Marleigh to the murder, Goldberg, 
newly returned to America, had married a wealthy 
heiress. 

Was this prospective marriage at the bottom of the 
crime, always supposing that Goldberg was Thomas 
Smith, and Thomas Smith was the murderer. 

He had contracted a liaison over here, that would not 
interfere with his marrying in America. 


DRAMAS OF LIFE . 


171 


But if he had married over here ! 

The hot blood rushed suddenly into the Inspectors 
cheeks, and he brought his fist down upon the desk. He 
believed that he was on the track at last. 

If Charles Goldberg had married over here, had married 
an English girl, believing that he was out of his uncle’s 
favor, and had nothing to hope in that quarter, and after his 
marriage had discovered that there was a chance of re- 
conciliation, that the old man wished his daughter to 
marry her cousin and carry on the business, and inherit 
his vast wealth, if the young lady herself had been in 
love with him, this only daughter of a wealthy man, and 
had told her father that she would never marry anyone 
else ! 

If this had happened, then, might not this young fellow, 
tempted by the golden bait, have got rid of his English 
wife in order that he might be free to take the American 
bride and her millions. 

The Inspector locked the American report up in his 
desk, and called to one of his men. 

“Callaghan,” he said, “just go down to Somerset 
House and ask Daddy Green to come to me.” 

If you have ever been to Somerset House, gentle reader, 
the chance is that you have seen Daddy Green and passed 
him without for a moment suspecting that you w«re in 
the presence of a remarkable character. Some day when 
I write the Drama of Life which has for its title “The 
Secret of Somerset House ” I will tell you a great deal 
more about Daddy Green than I can find space for here. 

He is a little, white-haired old gentleman, with round 
shoulders and slouching gait, and cunning little gray eyes, 
who passes his life among the great volumes of Somerset 
House. 

He is a searcher, a searcher at the service of the public, 
an old gentleman who, for a small fee, will find for you 
the birth, the death, or the marriage you may be in search 


172 


DRAMAS OF LIFE. 


of. Wonderful are the secrets, the romances, the dramas 
of life locked away in the breast of old Daddy Green. 

He has seen strong men start and turn pale as he 
handed them the proof of the fact that the affectionate 
wife has a husband already. He has helped to restore 
many a fortune to its rightful owner, to prove the death 
of people still supposed to be alive, to lay bare the un- 
suspected secrets of Somerset House to many an anxious 
and often unsuspecting inquirer. 

It was for Daddy Green, the searcher at Somerset House, 
that the inspector sent, and Daddy was soon at the Yard. 
It was by no means his first visit to that famous locality. 

“ Daddy,” said the Inspector. “ I have a job for you.” 

“ Marriage?” asked Daddy. 

“Yes, here are the particulars.” 

The Inspector handed Daddy Green a sheet of paper, 
on which he had written : 

“ Search for the marriage of Charles Dickson within the 
past five years, probably of American parentage. Age 
now about Thirty-three.” 

Daddy Green put on his spectacles and read the paper 
carefully. “Its a common name, rather,” he said. 
“Haven’t got any further particulars, have you? No 
second Christian name ; it’s a tremenduous help to me 
when there’s a good uncommon Christian name, in a 
search.” 

“I’ve told you all I know myself, Daddy,” said the 
Inspector. “There may be no marriage of the man I 
want, but find one if you can.” 

Daddy Green smiled. 

“If it’s there I’ll find it,” he said. “I’ll bring you 
everything that looks a bit like it Five years is the limit 
— you’re sure of that ?” 

“Yes,” replied the Inspector, “and you may begin 
from the end of last year safely. I should think if there is 
a marriage it must have been between a year ago and four 
years ago.” 


DRAMAS OF LIFE. 


173 

‘‘That’s a start, any way,” replied Daddy; and 
folding the paper up carefully and putting it into a 
well-worn, greasy pocket-book, that fairly bulged out with 
similar memoranda, he nodded to the Inspector, and went 
back to Somerset House, to set to work among the solemn- 
looking, matter-of-fact volumes with which its shelves are 
loaded — solemn and staid and sober tomes, yet every 
page of them teeming with records of the romance of real 
life — the romance of the cradle, the altar, and the tomb. 

It was noon on the following day before Daddy came 
to report progress to the Inspector. He had selected 
half-a-dozen marriages of Charles Dicksons as the most 
likely, and he and the Inspector went over them together. 

He went slowly through them all, reading them one by 
one till he came to the fifth. 

This he read, and read again : 

Charles Dickson, bachelor, gentleman; age 31 ; father 
dead. 

Jane Ellis, spinster ; age 22 ; governess ; father mer- 
cantile clerk. 

It was a marriage before the Registrar, and it had 
taken place about a year-and-a-half previously. 

“I’ll try this one before you look any further, Daddy,” 
said the Inspector. 

He went to the Registrar’s office with the copy of the 
certificate. The Registrar couldn’t remember what Charles 
Dickson was like. He married so many people, and it 
was all over in such a few minutes. Who were the 
witnesses? James Thurton and William Jones. Oh, they 
were his two clerks, the usual witnesses kept on the 
premises for young couples who came unprovided. 

The two clerks were called in. They taxed their 
memories. They could remember nothing, of the parties. 
They hardly looked at the names on the certificate, 
except in a general kind of way, just as a shopkeeper’s 
clerk would look at the name on a bill he was making out. 


174 


DRAMAS OF LIFE . 


The Inspector showed them the portrait of Mr. Charles 
Goldberg. 

No, they didn’t remember anybody like it. The Reg- 
istrar looked at it Yes, he had seen somebody like it. 
He had married somebody like it, but he didn’t think the 
man had a beard. 

That was curious. It was the same remark the clerk at 
the house agents had made. 

The Inspector thanked the Registrar and retired. 

He then went to the Retreat, and asked to see Mr. 
Marleigh. 

Marleigh was ill. The wife with tears in her eyes, told 
the Inspector that he had been gradually getting worse 
since his return from prison, and that now he was break- 
ing up altogether. 

The Inspector ascertained who was attending the man, 
and interviewed the doctor. 

The doctor regarded the case as hopeless. He was 
convinced the man’s brain was softening. No reliance 
could possibly be placed upon any statement he made. 
He was certainly suffering from delusions. He would 
not live long. 

The Inspector was allowed to see the sinking man. 
He could not get anything from him except that he had 
assisted to bury a murdered woman, and she was haunt- 
ing him. He told the story of the burial again. The 
body had been put in the grave prepared for it under the 
pear tree, and covered over with earth for the night. 
They had both been too nervous to complete their task 
that night. On the following morning they had hastily 
filled the grave up, and were able in the daylight to 
remove all traces of the ground having been disturbed. 
The man was weak and slo\yly dying. To worry him 
further was useless. 

Th$ Inspector now determined to devote his entire 
attention to Mr. Charles Goldberg. He might not be 


DR A MAS OF LIFE. 


175 


able to prove that he was the Charles Dickson who 
married Jane Ellis, but he might be able to prove that he 
was not , and that would be something. 

He also put one of his men to try and trace the Mrs. 
Dickson who had formerly been Jane Ellis. If she were 
alive of course it was no good following that scent any 
further. 

Just as he was about to consider the advisability of 
getting permission to go to America himself he received 
a cable from his confrere on the other side. 

“Goldberg and wife left for Liverpool yesterday by 
Celtic.” 

When the White Star steamer, the Celtic, arrived in the 
Mersey, among those who went off in the tug to meet it 
was our friend the Inspector. He had no difficulty in 
getting Mr. Goldberg pointed out to him. He recognized 
him at once by the newspaper portrait. 

His wife was a plain, amiable-looking young woman, 
of about six and twenty. The Inspector came on the tug 
to the landing stage with them and followed them to the 
North-Western Hotel where he also engaged a room. 

Of course, he managed to have a few words with the 
lady's maid. Mr. and Mrs. Goldberg were going to the 
Grand Hotel, Northumberland Avenue. Rooms had 
already been secured for them. They were leaving the 
next day. 

The Inspector left the next day and returned to Scotland 
Yard, after satisfying himself that the Goldbergs were at 
the Grand. Having opened his letters he went up to the 
house agents and saw the clerk just as he was leaving, 
and made an appointment for him to go with him to the 
Grand the next morning. 

The next morning, having ascertained that a carriage 
was ordered for twelve o’clock to take Mr. and Mrs. 
Goldberg out, the clerk was duly stationed at a post of 
observation near the Grand entrance. The Inspector, in 
plain clothes, was with him. 


DRAMAS OF LIFE. 


176 

Directly Mr. Goldberg came out the clerk touched the 
Inspector’s arm, and they walked away together. 

“ That’s the gentleman who took the Retreat of us. I’ll 
swear to him now,” he said. 

The Inspector now set his wits to work for a grand coup. 
He had not the slightest ground for charging Mr. Gold- 
berg with anything, or for detaining him, and yet he was 
convinced that there was a crime to be brought home to 
him in connection with the mysterious hiring of the 
Retreat. 

While he was arranging his plan of action the man 
employed to trace Jane Ellis reported that he had traced 
her from the address in the certificate. She had lived 
there under the name of Jane Ellis. The people there 
did not know she had ever been married. She had left 
about the date of the marriage, and they did not know 
what had become of her, but they had forwarded letters 
by her directions to Miss Ellis, care of Mrs. Dickson, to 
an address in Lloyd Square, Clerkenwell. At Lloyd 
Square they remembered Mrs. Dickson perfectly. She 
had lived there with her husband, whose description fairly 
answered that supplied to the man by the Inspector. It 
was in December, 188 — , that they left; the landlady 
remembered the circumstances perfectly. Mr. Dickson 
said they were looking for fresh apartments. By referring 
to the rent book she found that it was on the 18th of 
December that they went out together in the afternoon 
and did not return. She thought it curious, but the next 
day Mr. Dickson came and said they had found fresh 
apartments, paid up the rent and took the boxes away. 
She had seen nothing of either of them since. 

The 1 8th of December was the night fixed by the man 
Marleigh as the night of the murder. The Inspector felt 
sure that he was on the right road now. The missing 
woman was Mrs. Dickson, formerly Jane Ellis, and the 
murderer was Charles Dickson, now Charles Goldberg. 


DRAMAS OF LIFE. 


177 


But to charge him it was necessary to find some por- 
tion of the body, something on which an inquest could 
be held. You can’t hold an inquest on a bracelet. 

The Inspector was at his wits’ end what to do. But 
there were still further proofs which might be accumu- 
lated. In the certificate the name of the girl’s father was 
mentioned, John Richard Ellis. He could be traced if he 
were alive, and he might be able to supply some missing 
link. 

After considerable search and inquiry a John Richard 
Ellis was traced. He was an old man living in two 
small rooms in Walworth, and was a widower. He lived 
alone on a pension which his former employer allowed 
him. 

Interrogated by the Inspector he told a startling story. 
He had a daughter, Jane Ellis, who was a governess. 
She married much against his will a young fellow named 
Dickson, a man who was a gentleman, but a gambler 
and who attended races and backed horses. She lived in 
lodgings by herself before she married, as he at that time 
had a second wife, and Jane and her stepmother did not 
agree. She told him one day that she had married Dick- 
son and was living with him as his wife. He did not 
visit her, as, owing to family matters, they were not very 
great friends. 

“ Where was his daughter now, did he know ? 

“Oh, yes, she was dead.” 

“Oh, he knew she was dead. Did he know where she 
was buried? ” 

Yes, for he buried her himself, and went to her funeral. 

The Inspector opened his eyes to their widest extent. 
He had been anticipating the last link in his chain of evi- 
dence, and here was Jane Ellis’s father assuring him that 
he had buried her himself. 

“You are sure' you are not making a mistake?” gasped 
the Inspector. “Wait one moment.” 

12 


DRAMAS OF LIFE. 


178 

He drew from his pocket the portrait of Mr. Charles 
Goldberg, covered the name over, and showed it to the 
old man. 

“ Was that your son-in-law ? ” 

The old man looked at it long and earnestly. 

“It is exactly like him/' he replied, “except for the 
beard. He only wore a moustache/’ 

‘ ‘ Now tell me all you can, ” said the Inspector. ‘ ‘ Where 
did you bury your daughter, and of what did she die ? ” 

“ Her death was a mystery.” 

“ Ah ! ” exclaimed the Inspector, eagerly. 

“ Let me tell the story my own way. One night, about 
a year ago ” 

“Give me the month if you can.” 

“Well, it was December, I know, because it was just 
after Christmas Day.” 

After Christmas Day , and the date of the murder fixed 
by Marleigh was the 18th of December. The whole of 
his elaborate theory was breaking down. 

“ I should think it would be about two days after Box- 
ing Day ; at any rate it was in the same week,” continued 
the old man. “ One night, on my return home, my wife, 
who was then alive, informed me that some one from the 
Hospital had called and requested me to come and see 
my daughter, who was lying there dangerously ill. 

“I hastened to the hospital and found the poor girl 
dying, but able to converse with me. All she would tell 
me was that her husband had treated her cruelly and de- 
serted her, and that in a fit of despair she had tried to 
commit suicide by poisoning herself. The authorities at 
the hospital informed me that she had been found in the 
streets at an early hour in the morning of the 19th of 
December, senseless, and had been brought there. 

“She was evidently suffering from poison, and her 
hands and face when she fell were covered with mud 
and mould and dirt. It was supposed she had poisoned 


DRAMAS OF LIFE . 


179 


herself in a garden or some such place and fallen down 
in the mould, but coming to herself had staggered into 
the streets, possibly to get assistance, but had fallen 
senseless again.” 

“Whereabouts was she found on the morning of the 
19th of December?” exclaimed the Inspector. 

“In the St. Johns Wood Road,” replied the father, 

“ that was stated at the inquest.” 

“Ah ! of course there was an inquest/' 

“Yes. I and the doctor were almost the only wit- 
nesses. The poor girl had told her own story, and it was 
of course accepted. Her husband had left her, and she 
had poisoned herself. That was all she said. The med- 
ical evidence tallied with her own statement that she had 
taken poison. But she had recovered from that. What 
killed her was shock to the system.” 

“One moment,” exclaimed the Inspector, a sudden 
thought striking him. He took out the gold bracelet 
found in the grave beneath the pear tree and showed it to 
the old man. “ Did your daughter ever wear a bracelet 
like that?” 

The old man took it in his hands and examined it. 
“Yes. I remember this bracelet. She showed it to me 
once, and told me her husband had given it to her. I 
believe she always wore it.” 

The Inspector rose and took his hat and went out into 
the air a bewildered man. The young woman whom 
Marleigh had assisted to bury in the garden in the Retreat, 
after she had been murdered on the 18th of December, 
had died in a hospital many days later, and the coroner’s 
verdict on her own dying statement was that she died 
from the after effects of poison administered by herself. 

One little experiment the Inspector tried, just to make 
sure that he wasn’t making a fool of himself. 

He sent an anonymous letter to Charles Goldberg at 
the Grand Hotel. There were only these words on a 
sheet of paper — 


i8o 


DRAMAS OF LIFE . 


“ Ought you not to put a headstone over Jane Ellis’s 
grave, beneath the pear tree?” 

Two days afterwards, on making inquiries at the Grand, 
the Inspector was informed that Mr. Charles Goldberg 
and his wife had suddenly left London, called abroad by 
urgent private affairs. 

“ I thought so,” cried the Inspector. “That man be- 
lieves, as Marleigh did, that his first wife’s murdered 
body lies in the garden of the ‘Retreat,’ which he bought 
to be her sepulchre. ” 

But it was useless to follow the case any further ; there 
was no charge, even of bigamy, for Jane Dickson was 
undoubtedly dead before her husband married again. 
Murder there could be none, for the woman, according 
to her own dying statement in the hospital, committed 
suicide. 

The Inspector has a theory which may be the right 
one. He believes that the poor woman was poisoned 
in the house in some way by her husband. After she 
was, as he believed, dead, she had been hurriedly buried, 
and the earth lightly thrown over her, and then the men 
had left her, intending to resume their task in the morn- 
ing, and see that the ground was all right. 

The woman must have come to and freed herself from 
the loose earth and escaped into the street when she was 
found. In struggling with the earth upon her, her bracelet 
might easily have come off. 

Whether the woman, to deceive her murderers, had 
sense enough to throw the earth back again that she had 
displaced, one could never know, but it is probable that 
the men in their terror hastened to fill up the place and 
remove all trace of their crime with the daylight to guide 
them, and were too conscious-stricken and terrified to 
remove any of the earth to look upon the features of the 
murdered woman again. 

Marleigh, the Inspector concluded, had been bribed by 


DRAMAS OF LIFE, 


1 8 1 


a large money payment to assist in removing the traces 
of the crime, and might not even have known his 
employer’s real name. 

This may be only theory, but the fact remains that 
everything points to the fact of a woman having been 
buried in the deserted garden of that bijou residence, and 
having died days afterwards in a London hospital. 

Mr. Charles Goldberg is beyond the reach of the law, 
but it is probable that his wealthy father-in-law’s millions 
are powerless to make him either happy or comfortable, 
and that he will be haunted to the last day of his life by 
the remembrance of the anonymous letter he received at 
the Grand Hotel. 

The whole story has been told me again and again by 
the Inspector, who has now retired from active service, 
and I never pass Laburnham Road without looking at 
the modest and retiring little bijou residence called The 
Retreat. I noticed the other day that it is to let again at 
a moderate rental. Mr. Thomas Smith’s tenancy has 
evidently expired. 


GUNNING’S LUCK. 


Mr. Ebenezer Gunning, of Marshton, was a citizen of 
credit and renown in Marshton. From humble begin- 
nings, he had, by a little industry and a great deal of luck, 
arrived at the proud position of being looked up to as one 
of the wealthiest men in the town. A great man in all 
local matters, a generous contributor to all local charities, 
and a thorough-going and uncompromising Radical, 
it was not surprising that Mr. Ebenezer Gunning had 
made up his mind that “some day” he would go in for 
Parliamentary honors, and gratify the ardent desire of 
a large section of his fellow-citizens that he should 
represent them in the great legislative assembly at St. 
Stephen’s. 

Over and above his wealth, his popularity, and 
his Radicalism, Mr. Gunning, who was now in his 
fiftieth year, had a tremendous claim upon the suffrages 
of his fellow-electors — he was a fierce anti-vaccinationist. 

Marshton, which is a medium-sized town in the Mid- 
lands, is famous among other things for the peculiar 
views of its inhabitants on the subject of vaccination. 

It is a quiet, dull red-bricked town, in which the music 
hall is down a side street in order that the people who 
wish to patronize it may enter its portals secure from 
observation. It is a town in which the streets, main 
streets and side streets alike, are deserted after nine p. m. 


DRAMAS OF LIFE . 


183 

Nothing is capable of exciting the Marshtonians except a 
prosecution for a breach of the Vaccination Act. The 
moment it is announced that another Marshtonian is 
going to prison for refusing to have his baby vaccinated, 
the entire town gives itself up to delirious excitement, and 
every available musical instrument in the place is pressed 
into the service of “ Britons never shall be slaves.” 

On an occasion of this sort the inhabitants have been 
seen in the public streets as late as eleven p. m., and 
shouts and choruses have been heard to proceed from 
little bands of young men assembled outside the Coffee 
Palace in the High Street as late as midnight. The 
shouts and choruses are, at such times, plentifully inter- 
spersed with the name of the bold martyr, who has 
allowed himself to be marched off to durance vile, rather 
than comply with the law against which he has the fierce 
and uncompromising local prejudice. 

It was after one of these local demonstrations that Mr. 
Ebenezer Gunning, who had taken the chair at a big 
meeting, was walking quietly home by himself to his 
residence, which was about a mile out of the town on the 
main road to the race-course. 

He had had a tremendous reception at the meeting. In 
his blunt, straightforward way, he had given off his 
opinions, prefacing them, as usual, with the statement 
that “they all knew him,” and that he was a self-made 
man. 

“You all know me in Marshton ; you knew me when I 
wasn’t what I am now, but Joe, the waiter at the Black 
Bull — I was always called Joe, though my name was 
Ebenezer, because Ebenezer was a bit too chapelly. You 
knew me before I made my fortchin' ; you knew me when 
I was makin’ it, and you know me now I’ve made it. 
When I was Joe Gunning, the waiter at the Black Bull, I 
was alius the fust to raise my voice against the tyranny 
of this infamous lor, and now I ride in my carriage, and 


DRAMAS OF LIFE. 


184 

has my footman behind my chair, and my name’s 
Ebenezer Gunning, Esq., my voice is still heard as loud 
as hever on the side of truth and justis. ” (Frantic 
cheering. ) 

That was Mr. Gunning s speech — it had been his 
speech on many previous occasions, and it never failed 
to draw forth uproarious cheers, especially that part of it 
which referred to his previous position as Joe, the head- 
waiter at the Black Bull Hotel, the leading commercial 
house of Marshton. 

Some men who had arrived at Ebenezers position would 
quietly have allowed the past to slide ; he never gave it 
a chance. He told his story to every stranger to whom 
he was introduced, to every guest who sat at his dinner 
table. He was proud of it, proud that he who 1 5 years 
ago was a head-waiter, and not over well-to-do, owing to 
a fatal habit “ of having his bit on his fancy " for nearly 
every important race in the year, was now a wealthy 
citizen — a man of money, a man of houses and of land, 
retired from business, and with nothing to do but devote 
himself to his good little wife and his charming daughter 
Minnie, and the good of his fellow-citizens. 

As he walked home from the meeting to his residence 
and left the lights of the town behind him, he fell into a 
reverie. 

“Fifteen years ago — and, why, God bless me, it is 
fifteen years ago almost to a day, for it was Marshton 
Race week as it is now.” 

A quick step behind him. 

“Hullo!” exclaimed Mr. Gunning. “Who’s that?” 
and he buttoned his coat well over his big watch chain, 
remembering that during race week there are some queer 
characters about. 

He turned round to see who was walking behind him, 
and saw a man coming on quickly. 

It was too dark to see what kind of a man, so to be on 


DRAMAS OF LIFE . 1 8 5 

the safe side, Ebenezer grasped his stick firmly and stepped 
out. 

But the man gained upon him. He was evidently 
quickening his pace. Presently he was right up to him. 

“ I beg your pardon,” said the man as he came up by 
his side, “ if I have made a mistake, you will pardon me, 
but are yon not Mr. Ebenezer Gunning, who spoke at the 
meeting to-night ? ” 

“Yes, sir, I am,” replied Ebenezer, still walking on 
and still grasping his stick. 

“I followed you from the meeting and missed you in 
the crowd,” replied the man. “I only caught sight of 
you just now in the town/ and I didn’t like to speak to 
you while you were with your friends.” 

“Well, sir, what is it you have to say to me that’s so 
important that you’ve followed me all this way? ’’replied 
Ebenezer, trying to get a look at his companion’s face. 

“I heard you tell the story at the meeting of how fif- 
teen years ago a man you had done a service to gave you 
a hundred-pound note, and how that hundred pounds had 
been the beginning of your good fortune.” 

“ The .story’s true ; what of it, sir ? ” 

“I was going to ask you ” 

“To try the same experiment and give you a hundred 
pounds, eh?” said Ebenezer, speaking the thought that 
was in his mind. 

“No,” replied the stranger; “ I was going to ask you 
if you would recognize your benefactor if you saw him. 

“Yes, I think I should.” 

The stranger put his hand in his pocket, drew out a 
match box, and struck a light ; for a moment the glare of 
the fusee was full upon his face. 

“ Good heavens above ! ” exclaimed Ebenezer, starting 
back. “I — I can’t be mistaken — tell me, tell me, sir, 
tell me at once — you were the man.” 

“ I was,” replied the stranger. 


1 86 


ft ft A MAS Oft LIFE. 


“My dear sir, oh, my dear sir,” cried Ebenezer, seizing 
his hands, ‘ ‘ how I have longed for this moment. I hadn’t 
time to thank you. You were off before I could say 
much. Come to my house, sir, come to my house. Let 
me introduce you to my wife and daughter, let me intro- 
duce you to my fellow-townsmen. Ah, you didn’t know 
what you were doing for me that night. You made Joe 
Gunning, Ebenezer Gunning Esquire, and you’ll find, 
sir, that Ebenezer Gunning ain’t ungrateful, sir.*’ 

“My dear sir,” replied the man, “1 am delighted to 
think I was of such service to you, but I must beg 
that you won’t make too much of the matter. I will ac- 
cept your hospitality to-night with pleasure, but I must 
entreat that, except from your own family, you will keep 
my identity a secret.” 

“No, no. All the town shall know it.” 

“ Then,” said the stranger, “ I shall say good-night.” 

Ebenezer Gunning seized his benefactor by the arm. 
He wouldn’t hear of such a thing. But the benefactor 
was firm. At last a bargain was struck. The benefactor 
agreed to accompany Ebenezer to his house on the strict 
understanding that, with the exception of Mrs. and Miss 
Gunning, no living soul was to be told that he was the 
donor of the lucky hundred-pound note. 

As they covered the remaining half-mile that separated 
them from Mr. Gunning’s residence, they chatted ex- 
citedly about the past. At least Mr. Gunning did ; the 
stranger, beyond asking a few questions, was remarka- 
bly cool and collected. 

“And so that hundred pound note really was the com- 
mencement of your making a fortune, Mr. Gunning? ” 

“Yes, sir, it was.” 

“ Then I’m very glad I gave it to you.” 

“ It was right down generous of you. I never quite 
understood why you did it.” 

“Well, you saved my life.” 


DRAMAS OF LIFE. 


187 

“You. said so. But I never quite understood how, 
and now as we’ve met again after all these years p’raps 
there’s one or two points as you’ll clear up for me. Fif- 
teen years ago this very race-week as ever is I’m a-leav- 
ing the Black Bull, it being my early night off and a-goin’ 
home to my little crib where I lived then. I was just at 
my door when I hears a-hollerin’ and a row, and I sees 
you a runnin’ like mad with three or four fellows a run- 
nin’ after you. Your face was smothered with blood, 
your coat was torn, you looked mad with fear. 

“‘Save me,’ you says. ‘They’ll murder me. Save me 
and I’ll give you anything you like.’ You'd seen me 
open my door with the key, you pushed by me and dashes 
in afore the chaps that was after you, was near enough 
in the dark to see what has happened. 

“I was hesitating when you shoved something in my 
hand. It was a bank note. ‘Take this,’ you says, ‘and 
shut the door, for God’s sake.’ 

“You pulled me in and banged the door to for me, and 
stood there in the ’all panting for breath and trembling. 
We heard the fellows come on cursing and swearing. 

‘ He went this way,’ says one. ‘ He’s turned the corner, 
then,’ says the others, ‘come on, or we shall lose him.’ 

“Then the sound of their feet and their cursing and 
swearing went farther and farther away till the street was 
quiet. 

“‘Thank you,’ says you, and without another word 
you pulls the door open afore I could stop you, and went 
out into the street again. 

“I run to the door and looked after you. I saw you 
bolt with all your might in the opposite direction to what 
the other chaps had taken, and that’s the last I ever set 
eyes on you till now. And when I struck a light in the* 
’all and looked at what you’d given me, expecting to see 
a fiver, I’m hanged if it wasn’t a Bank of England note 
for £iqq,” 


1 88 


DRAMAS OF LIFE . 


“Yes,” said the stranger, speaking for the first time 
since Mr. Gunning commenced his narrative. “I found 
it out afterwards. I had intended to give you a five pound 
note, but I had given you a hundred in mistake. I had 
been racing, and the notes must have got mixed.” 

“ I thought so,” exclaimed Ebenezer ; “ and so I owe 
you £95. My dear sir, to-morrow morning you shall 
have it, and with interest. But now you must answer me 
a question. Why were those chaps after you ? * 

“My dear Mr. Gunning,” replied the stranger, “ that is 
easily explained. At that time I was, as I am now, a 
racing man. But I was a beginner at the business then, 
and quite green. I had left my father s office, like a fool- 
ish young man, to back horses, encouraged by a little 
luck I had had over the Derby. I had won £300, and I 
thought it a fortune, and betting better than business. I 
travelled from meeting to meeting, and I came to Marsh- 
ton. During the day, on the course, I foolishly made 
friends with a stranger, who seemed a gentleman. He 
noticed me take a bank note from my pocket-book to pay 
a bet, and must have seen that the book was well filled. 
That evening he introduced me to the smoke-room of 
his hotel, where we met some more nice fellows. We 
talked racing, and at closing time, when I got up to go to 
the hotel at which I was staying, I was the worse for 
liquor. I believe they had put something in my drink. 
They said they would see me home. I got better in the 
cool air, and my suspicions were aroused. 

“Suddenly, in a quiet street, one of them gave me a 
tremendous blow in the face. They expected it to knock 
me down. Fortunately it didn’t, and I took to my heels and 
ran for my life. I saw you at your door. I dashed in ; 
you know the rest, and that is the true story of how it all 
happened. ” 

“Wonderful J ” exclaimed Ebenezer, “but not so won- 
derful as what happened afterwards. I was a bit of a 


DRAMAS OF LIFE, 


189 

better, you know. I told all my friends about having 
£100 given me. It got about all over the town, for Joe, 
the head waiter at the Black Bull, was pretty well-known, 

I can tell you, and a bookmaker as used our house he 
says to me, ‘Joe, I’d have a dash now and make that hun- 
dred into something worth having. ’ 

“ ‘Would you ? ’ says I. 

“ ‘Yes, I would/ says he, ‘ have a dash on something.' 

“There was a big handicap coming off in a fortnight, 
and I'd a tip for it from one of our commercial gents, who 
always got good information, so I says: ‘Well how 
much Cherrybob for the big race ? ' 

“ ‘Well,' he says, ‘there's nothing like having a long 
shot. I’ll lay you whatever it’s quoted at in to-night's 
paper.' 

“ ‘ Done,' I says. ‘ I’ll have £25 on it, and if I lose it 
I'll put the rest of my £100 in the bank, and reckon I’ve 
saved £75/ 

“That night when the paper came in I turned to the 
racing, and Cherrybob had gone back in the betting and 
was 40 to 1. 

“When the bookmaker came in he says, ‘ I've booked 
that to you, Joe — forty ponies — and I hope I shall have 
to pay you. Where’s the pony ? ' 

“Well, it went against the grain changing that £100. I 
had a superstition about it, so I said ‘ I'll pay you to- 
morrow,' and instead of changing the hundred, which 
the missus had taken care of and sewed up in her stays, 
God bless her! for safety, I drew all my money out of the 
savings bank, and borrowed a fiver to make it up, and 
gave the bookmaker his £25. 

“And I’m hanged if Cherrybob didn't come to ten to one 
before the race, and win in a canter on the day, and there 
was I with a thousand pounds. Me, Joe, the head-waiter 
at the Black Bull with a thousand pounds.” 

“That was a bit of luck,” exclaimed the benefactor, “a 
tremendous bit of luck.” 


DR A MAS OF LIFE . 


190 

“ Yes, and it was the beginning of more. I didn’t have 
another bet after that, the missus wouldn’t let me, but 
presently with that thousand and a little bit as I’d got, and 
what the brewers, and distillers advanced, I took a little 
place of my own, and if you believe me, sir, it seems as 
if there was magic in it — I did a tremendous trade.” 

“The story of how I got my start was an advertisement, 
and people came in to talk to me and it got to be quite a 
rendyvoo, especially for the sporting people, because of 
my having been a sporting chap, and also for the pol- 
itical party, as is a very big party here through my being 
so strong on the vaccination question, and in ten years, 
what with one thing and another, I’d changed the house 
and made it a tip-top place and made a fortune in it, and 
the money I made I put in another speculation that no- 
body believed in till I took it up, and then the whole 
town followed “Gunning’s luck, ” as they called it, and 
the shares what was 2s. 6d. went up to £5 afore long, 
and, to make a long story short, here I am after 15 years, 
retired from business, sir, and the owner of some of the 
best property in the town, and I don’t think there’s many 
in the place as is much better off, and here we are, sir, 
at my house — come in, come in, and you’ll have a hearty 
welcome from my wife and daughter, I can tell you, 
when I tell them that the unknown benefactor as give me 
the £100 that was the beginning of Gunning’s luck.” 

It was the next morning, and Ebenezer Gunning, his 
wife and daughter, were seated at breakfast. Their guest 
“the benefactor,” as Mr. Gunning called him, had not 
yet come down. 

“What do you think of him, my dear,” said Mr. Gun- 
ning. 

“Well, Ebenezer, he seems a very well spoken and 
nicely behaved sort of man, but there’s something about 
him I don’t like.” 


DRAMAS OF LIFE. 


191 

“ He’s not a gentleman, papa/' said Minnie. 

“Well, perhaps not, my dear. But he behaved very 
gentlemanly to me, and he’s our benefactor. We owe 
all we’ve got in the world to him, so you must be polite 
and nice to him.” 

“Oh, certainly, my dear,” said Mrs. Gunning. 

And she was very polite, and so was Minnie, and 
Gunning himself couldn’t make too great a fuss with him. 

He informed them that his name was Lupton — Herbert 
Lupton, and that he had never been able to wean him- 
self from his favorite pursuit, racing. He was a good- 
looking man of about eight and thirty, but both the ladies 
thought he looked fast, and as if he drank more than was 
good for him. He was well dressed, but in rather a 
flashy style, and when Mr. Gunning told him at break- 
fast that he was to consider the house his home, when- 
ever he liked to make it so, both the ladies looked at 
each other a little uneasily. 

For some reason they had taken a dislike already to 
their “benefactor.” 

After breakfast the gentlemen went out into the grounds 
for a cigar, and then Mr. Gunning at once proceeded to 
business. 

“Now,. Mr. Lupton,” he said. You must be candid 
with me. I owe you £95 — because you only meant to 
give me five — that I shall hand you at once, but if there 
is any other way in which I can be of service to you, you 
must let me know. I feel as if you have a right to share 
in my prosperity. I’m a plain blunt man — but — er — in 
short, you helped me once. Can I help you now ? ” 

Mr. Herbert Lupton gave his host a searching glance. 

“Well, it’s very good of you,” he said, “but, as you 
put it so straight I don’t mind confessing that things 
haven’t gone well with me of late, and — er, I’ve had a 
thundering bad time racing. If you would lend me, not 
give me, because I couldn’t accept it, but if you could 
lend me £500 ” 


192 


DRAMAS OF LIFE. 


“ Not another word, sir,” exclaimed Ebenezer. “Come 
into my library, and I’ll give you a check now.” 

“I shall pay you back ” 

“If you don’t I can’t help it. If you don’t I am still 
your debtor. But for you I should still be a waiter, and 
perhaps a very hard up one, perhaps a waiter out of 
place. Ebenezer Gunning, sir, is not ungrateful.” 

A quarter of an hour later Mr. Gunning’s check for 
£500 was in Mr. Lupton’s pocket. 

“And now, my dear sir, you’ll stay with us at any 
rate for a few days. Let me send to your hotel for your 
things.” 

“Very sorry — I must get up to town to-day, but I’ll 
come and see you again. I’ll just say good-bye to the 
ladies, for I must catch the 12 o’clock train.” 

Finding his persuasions useless, Mr. Gunning was 
obliged to give in. The adieux were duly spoken, and 
then Mr. Gunning escorted his guest to the door, where 
Mr. Gunning’s brougham was waiting to drive him to 
the station. 

As they were saying good-bye for the last time through 
the carriage window, Mr. Lupton said casually: “By 
the bye, how long did you keep that £100 I gave you ; 
you had to change it at last.” 

“Change it!” exclaimed Ebenezer. “I’ve never 
changed it, sir, and I never will. It’s my luck. I’ve got 
it now, and when I die I shall leave it to my daughter 
as a heirloom. Where do you think it is ? ” 

“I’m sure I can’t guess,” said Mr. Lupton smiling. 

“Why where it was first put, my boy. It’s still sewn 
up in the missus’s stays. When she couldn’t wear the 
pair it was fust put in any longer, owing td her getting 
stout and the stays getting old she put the note in her 
new pair, and she is wearing your £100 sewn up in her 
stays now. Ha, ha, ha ! ” 

The departing benefactor laughed as pleasantly and as 


DRAMAS OF LIFE. 


193 


heartily as Ebenezer Gunning*. “Ha, ha, ha ! my note 
sewn up in her stays ! Capital idea ! Good-bye. See 
you again soon.” 

The coachman whipped up the horse and the bene- 
factor was gone. 

He didn’t go straight to the station. He put his head 
out of the window and told the coachman to stop at the 
Bank. There he cashed Mr. Gunning’s check, and then 
left by the midday train for town. 

At one o’clock that day Mr. Gunning was pottering 
about his front garden, when his friend, Superintendent 
Jones came in. 

“Hullo, Jones, how are you? Meeting went off 
quietly last night, didn’t it ? ” 

“ Yes ; but I haven’t come to talk about that. I want 
you to tell me how, in the name of all that’s extraor- 
dinary, Flash Jarvis got your brougham to drive him to 
the station to-day ? ” 

“Flash who?” exclaimed Ebenezer, thinking he 
couldn’t have heard what the Superintendent said. 

“ Flash Jarvis. Your man told me ‘the gentleman’ 
had been here all night, and that you put him in the 
brougham yourself.” 

“ The gentleman who was my guest was a Mr. Lupton,” 
exclaimed Ebenezer. “ It’s the most extraordinary thing 
in the world. Imagine, my dear fellow, he was the very 
man who, fifteen years ago, gave me the £100 note that 
made my fortune and founded Gunning’s luck. ” 

It was the Superintendent’s turn to be astonished. He 
made Mr. Gunning tell him the whole story. 

“Good heavens!” he exclaimed, when Ebenezer had 
finished. “ Do you know that the man who got out of 
your brougham is one of the most notorious characters on 
a racecourse, and has been for the last seventeen or 
eighteen years. Why he’s been in prison half a dozen 

13 


DRAMAS OF LIFE. 


194 

times, and he gave you the £100 note you’re always 
talking about. I can’t believe it.” 

“ Well, he did, and I’ve got the note to prove it.” 

“ Where is it ? ” 

“ Sewn up in the missus’s stays.” 

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” said the Superintendent. 

“Then you shall. I must have this cleared up at 
once.” 

Five minutes later Mrs. Gunning retired to her room, 
and presently Ebenezer came downstairs in triumph with 
a note in his hand. 

“There,” he exclaimed, flinging it on the table. 

The Superintendent picked it up and looked at it, then 
burst into a roar of laughter. 

“I thought so,” he exclaimed. “Why, look at it, 
man. Look at it carefully. Your good wife has kept 
sewn up in her stays, for the last fifteen years, a note for 
£100 on the Bank of Elegance ! ” 

It was true. 

The foundation of the vast fortune of Ebenezer 
Gunning, Esquire, was a flash racecourse note, such as 
welshers and racecourse cheats carry about with them to 
cheat the greenhorns. His wife had folded it up and put 
it in her stays the night Ebenezer handed it to her. It 
had been removed as a precious heirloom, folded up, and 
placed carefully away in each succeeding pair of stays 
she had worn, and this was the first time it had been 
actually examined. 

It is probable that the men who were pursuing “Mr. 
Lupton” on the night Mr. Gunning rescued him were 
men whom he had swindled on the racecourse, and who 
had recognized him in the town. He had slipped one of 
the folded flash notes into the unsuspecting waiter’s hand 
to secure his assistance, and the waiter, overpowered 
with astonishment at the sight of “one hundred pounds ” 


DRAMAS OF LIFE. 


*95 

had not looked carefully enough into it then to detect the 
fraud, and since that eventful night his wife had guarded 
it secure from observation in her stays. 

Before the Superintendent left, Ebenezer made him 
solemnly promise never to betray the secret he had dis- 
covered to a living soul, and the Superintendent kept his 
word. 

To-day no one else in Marshton knows that “Gun- 
ning’s luck ” was due to a Bank of Elegance note, not 
worth a farthing, or that it was on this substantial basis 
that he built up the large fortune which to-day he 
enjoys. 

But it is noticed that Ebenezer Gunning, Esq., though 
he still proclaims himself a self-made man, has not for a 
long time past referred to the hundred pounds note which 
built up his credit, and was the stepping-stone to his 
fortune. 

And Mrs. Gunning, whom he is loth to undeceive, still 
keeps the Bank of Elegance note carefully sewn up in her 
stays, because it is the sacred talisman which worked the 
change in her husband’s prospects. 

Which shows that the reputation of having money is 
sometimes quite as useful as the actual possession of it. 
The foundation of many a vast fortune is quite as 
shadowy and unreal as that upon which was built up 
the now solid edifice of “Gunning’s luck.” 


“ PA.” 


When the wealthy Miss Tomkins made such a bad 
match and married that scapegrace, William Jones Lau- 
rence, junior, all her friends prophesied that it would turn 
out badly. William was a good-looking, harum-scarum 
young fellow of six-and-twenty, who spent his days 
dressed to death as a swell clerk on the Stock Exchange, 
and his evenings (before he became so violently en- 
amored of Gertrude Tomkins) in music halls and other 
dreadful places. 

William Laurence was dreadfully “fast,” and he was 
in with a fast set. In the intervals of his laborious duties 
“in the House,” he was generally to be found lolling 
over one of the bars in the neighborhood of Throgmorton 
Street, chaffing the barmaids and smoking unlimited 
cigarettes. 

Occasionally, to vary the programme, he would toss a 
friend for sovereigns, make one at a game of nap in a 
quiet office whenever the “Governor” was out of town, 
or assist in some of the many practical jokes with which 
the light-hearted young gentlemen of the Stock Exchange 
beguile the weary hours, when business is quiet and 
things are dull. 

In the evening, dressed in faultless evening garb, with 
a beautiful flower in his exquisitely fitting overcoat, he 


DRAMAS OF LIFE. 


19 7 

was generally to be seen at the Alhambra or the Pavilion 
(it was in the days before “The Empire” burst upon a 
wondering world as a Palace of Varieties with “Two 
lovely black eyes,” “What cheer, Ria,” a ballet and 
recitations from Lord Tennyson’s poems, and Dr. Watts’ 
hymns included in its bill of fare) or the Aquarium. 

His salary being a small one, and his allowance from 
his papa by no means a large one, Mr. William Jones 
Laurence naturally had some difficulty in making his 
income equal to the demands of his decidedly lavish 
expenditure. The difficulty was got over with the assist- 
ance of one or two obliging gentlemen who discounted 
little bills for him. There was a nice kind tailor who 
didn’t do this sort of thing himself, but who could “get 
it done,” and who would take young Laurence’s bill for 
£50 at three months and hand him £35 for it, at the same 
time deducting a tenner on account of his own overdue 
account. Then there was a solicitor’s clerk who was 
very useful to him, and whose acquaintance he had made 
in a remarkable way. 

One day this clerk called at the office and handed him 
a writ for £50. Mr. William Jones Laurence, who was 
always of a gay and cheerful turn of mind, took the writ, 
laughed, and invited the said clerk to come out and have 
a drink on the strength of it. 

Said clerk being nothing loth they had a pint bottle of 
fizz at the Palmerston, and Mr. William Jones Laurence 
confided to the emissary of the law his little financial 
difficulties, and so won him over by his candor and bon- 
homie that the clerk undertook to finance him a little 
himself “ for a consideration.” 

The secret of the ease with which the young gentleman 
“financed” himself in this free and easy way is soon 
told. Mr. William Jones Laurence, senior, was supposed 
to be a man of wealth and position in the city, and 
William, junior, was the only son. It was a case of 


DRAMAS OF LIFE. 


198 

advancing the junior money which there was every 
reason to believe the senior would eventually pay. 

The senior did pay eventually when with all young 
William’s cleverness he found it impossible to renew any 
longer or to meet his engagements, the interest on renew- 
als added in some cases to the original bills having run 
an original loan of about £200 up to something like £800. 

As we live in an age when everything that has to do 
with finance is interesting, when financial papers come 
out every day, and are eagerly purchased by all classes, 
and the race for wealth is so fierce that the wits of the 
competitors are preternaturally sharp, a slight sketch of 
young Mr. Laurence’s financial methods may not be 
uninteresting. 

I will take one transaction as a specimen. He honored 
two tailors with his patronage ; one was Mr. Brown, of 
Holborn, the other was Mr. Smith, of Moorgate Street. 

He borrowed £25 of Brown, and gave a bill at three 
months for it. When the bill became due he hadn’t any 
spare cash, so he discounted a bill for £50 with Smith, 
paid Brown, and pocketed the difference, about £10. 
When the £50 bill became due he discounted a bill for £75 
with Brown and paid Smith. When that became due he 
discounted a bill for £100 with Smith and paid Brown. 

If you work out this arrangement in figures, and cal- 
culate the interest paid at about 80 per cent, (it was often 
more), you will have no difficulty in understanding how, 
in about two years, the system broke down, and Mr. 
William Jones Laurence, junior, found himself in a 
“devil of a mess,” and had to make a clean breast of his 
financial position to his worthy parent. 

Mr. William Laurence, senior, was in those days a 
prosperous man of business. His trade was an old- 
fashioned one, and by no means congenial to his son, 
who had swell notions. It was because of these swell 
notions that he got a berth with a stockbroker instead of 
in his father’s office. 


DRAMAS OF LIFE. 


199 

Mr. Laurence, senior, gave his son a severe talking to, 
and paid his debts, and the next day young William, being 
once more financially sound, borrowed another £25 of his 
tailor, “just to go on with.” 

But that was his last escapade. One night at an even- 
ing party he met the fair and charming Miss Gertrude 
Tomkins, eldest daughter and sole heiress of Wilkins 
Tomkins, Esq., of Clapham, retired tallow merchant, and 
fell violently in love with her. 

He didn't, of course, confess his love straight off 
after the first quadrille, but went home and dreamt 
about her, and the next day at the office made a series of 
mistakes, which would have procured him the “sack” 
there and then if his employer hadn’t been his father’s 
friend. 

After that he sought invitations wherever he imagined 
he was likely to meet Miss Tomkins ; he made desperate 
efforts to be nice and polite to Wilkins Tomkins, Esq., 
her father, and at last he succeeded in getting his sister 
to strike up a friendship with Miss Tomkins, and so in the 
course of a few months the two families became on very 
intimate terms, and young William saw a great deal of his 
black-eyed Susan. Her name wasn’t Susan, but Gertrude, 
and her eyes were blue, but that doesn’t matter — the 
poetic license is quite permissible. 

Now that he was in love, William Laurence w r as a very 
different person to the Willie Laurence of old. No more 
barmaid flirtations in the city, no more evenings at the 
Alhambra and the Pavilion. No more tossing for sov- 
ereigns, and no more little bills at 80 per cent. 

William was going to be worthy his adored one. He 
was going to make a name for himself in the city, for was 
he not determined to enter for the matrimonial stakes ? and 
to enter for any stakes, with a hope of carrying them off, 
you must put yourself in strict training. 

The course of their true love ran smoothly enough as 


200 


DRAMAS OF LIFE. 


far as the young lady was concerned. She blushingly 
confessed, when pressed upon the point by Will's sister, 
that Will was “very nice." Thus encouraged, William 
ventured, when an excellent opportunity occurred, to tell 
Miss Tomkins that he loved her, that he could not live 
without her, and that if she would only give him per- 
mission to tell her papa what he had told her she would 
make him the happiest man in Queen Victorias realms. 

Gertrude blushed and consented, and eventually Wil- 
kins Tomkins, Esq., and William Jones Laurence, Esq., 
senior, had a little business conversation, and the result 
was that the young people were informed that they might 
consider themselves engaged. 

Which they did. 

Twelvemonths afterwards Mr. William Jones Laurence, 
junior, having, with the assistance of his parent, purchased 
a junior partnership in the firm of stockbrokers with whom 
he had gained his experience as a clerk, led to the hymen- 
eal altar Miss Gertrude Tomkins, only daughter and sole 
heiress of Wilkins Tomkins, Esquire. 

And they were happy. 

Very, very happy for two or three years, and William 
Laurence, junior, got on and prospered, and became seri- 
ous as he became substantial, and settled down into quite 
a model of propriety and respectability, being much looked 
up to, and growing just a wee bit proud and pompous. 

And now there happened one of those peculiar “ topsy- 
turveydoms " (I coin the word, because the current one 
does not for the moment occur to me) with which the 
student of contemporary men and women is continually 
being brought face to face. 

In proportion as William Jones Laurence, junior, 
Esquire, went up in the scale of respectability, Mr. Wil- 
liam Jones Laurence, senior, slid down it. 

The staid, sober city merchant, at the mature age of 
§ixty, suddenly commenced to sow his wild oats. He 


DRAMAS OF LIFE. 


201 


began at sixty just where his son had left off at twenty- 
five. 

Rumors had reached William Laurence, junior, from 
time to time, from his relations that “Pa” was doing 
strange things, but William had put a good deal of it down 
to exaggeration. 

But one day when he went into a bar in Throgmorton 
Street, to see if one of his clerks was there, and found his 
respected parent actually taking a pint of champagne in 
the mornin g and chaffing the barmaid , repeating, as it were, 
the follies of his own youth, in the very place and on the 
very spot where he had been foolish, he was so dum- 
founded for a moment that he couldn't speak. 

When he had recovered sufficient breath to articulate, 
he exclaimed “ Hulloh, Governor, wha — what the deuce 
are you doing here ? ” 

The old gentleman didn't seem a bit taken aback, but, 
lighting a cigarette, replied : “ Business, my boy, business. 
How are you ? ” 

It was a shock to William Laurence, junior, a great 
shock. He didn’t like the idea of his parent — a man bear- 
ing the same name as himself, and known to a great 
many of his business acquaintances, drinking champagne 
before lunch and chaffing barmaids. And moreover it 
was just the sort of thing that Mr. Laurence, senior, had 
always set his face against in the past. How many times 
had he lectured his son upon the impropriety of such 
proceedings, and assured him that a young man who did 
that sort of thing would never come to a good end. 

“What sort of an end will an old man who does that 
sort of thing come to?” said the young man to himself, 
and he returned to his office bewildered and wondering. 

About a fortnight afterwards he had a further shock. 

One of his clients, a young fellow who did a bit of 
gambling on the Stock Exchange, came to his office one 
afternoon, and after a little business conversation ex- 


202 


DRAMAS OF LIFE. 


claimed: “Oh, I say, Laurence, I forgot to tell you. I 
met your father last night.” 

“ Did you ? ” said Laurence, “ where ? ” 

The client laughed. 

“ At the Alhambra ! ” 

“ What ! ” exclaimed William, “ my — governor — at the 
Alhambra.” 

“Yes, and the old boy was enjoying himself, and no 
mistake. He’d got his hat well on one side, a big cigar 
in his mouth, a flower in his buttonhole, and he was 
going it.” 

William Laurence, junior, didn’t say anything. He 
simply sat down in a chair and stared open-mouthed at 
his informant. 

It was true, then, the stories that reached him— just 
as he was becoming a sober citizen, and supporter of 
churches and missions, and a patron of the various move- 
ments for the elevation of the young men of the present 
day, his venerated and venerable parent was bursting out 
into a full-blown man about town. 

That evening he and his wife dined with Wilkins Tom- 
kins, Esq., his father-in-law. After dinner, when the two 
gentlemen were left alone over their wine, Mr. Tomkins 
put on a grave face and said solemnly, “William, there 
is a subject upon which I wish to speak to you.” 

“Certainly, sir,” replied William, wondering what was 
coming. 

“The fact is, William, I am not quite satisfied with the 
way you are going on ! ” 

“ Indeed, sir ! ” exclaimed William, very much aston- 
ished. “May I ask what I have done to cause you a 
moment’s uneasiness?” 

“You may. Of course, I can have no control over 
your actions, but the happiness of my child is very dear 
to me, and I naturally am grieved when I find her hus- 
band mixing in circles where a respectable married man 
of business is decidedly out of place.” 


DRAMAS OF LIFE . 


203 


“I fail to understand you, sir.” 

“Then I will be plain, William. Do you think that 
you ought to allow it to be publicly known that you 
attended a ball given by the members of the Lah-di-dah 
Club to the ladies of the Frivolity Theatre? ” 

William opened his eyes in astonishment 

“ My dear sir,” he exclaimed, “ I assure you that you 
are mistaken. I have not since my marriage been to any 
ball except with my wife.” 

“Then a most unwarrantable use has been made of 
your name,” said Mr. Tomkins, drawing a piece of news- 
paper from his pocket “Read this, William,” he said, 
handing *the cutting over to the young man. “I cut it 
out of a sporting paper which was shown to me by a 
friend who was struck by your name.” 

Young William Laurence took the piece of paper and 
read it. “Among the gentlemen who footed it merrily 
with the charming young ladies of the Frivolity until the 
‘gunpowder ran out of their boots/ we noticed the Hon. 
Tom Noddy, Lord Waterloo, better known as ‘Uncle 
Trot/ Captain ‘Pop’ Penarth, and a large contingent of 
city mashers, among whom were ‘Colonel’ Gus Cohen, 
Mr. Hughie Logan (the Mincing Lane masher), Mr. Wil- 
liam Jones Laurence, etc., etc., etc.” 

“ Now, William,” said Mr. Wilkins Tomkins, as his son- 
in-law finished the paragraph, “you can understand my 
dismay at seeing you in such company? ” 

“But, my dear sir,” gasped William, “ I wasn’t there, 
I assure you I wasn’t. It must be another William Jones 
Laurence.” 

“Nonsense, my boy, there isn’t another Jones Laurence 
in the directory except your father.” 

William sat bolt upright in his chair. 

Except his father ! Good heavens above ! Of course — 
it must have been his father. 

“That’s it — it must have been the governor ! ” 


204 


DRAMAS OF LIFE. 


“What, William ?” cried Mr. Tomkins, “do you wish 
me to believe that your father would — absurd ! ” 

“It — er — must have been,” stammered William. “ I’m 
• — er — afraid the governor is going in for this sort of thing, 
from what I’ve heard lately. At anyrate I wasn’t there, 
so please let us say no more about it.” 

That evening, as William drove home with his wife, he 
gave vent to his feelings. “My dear,” he said, “I am 
getting very uneasy about my respected parent. We are 
both William Jones Laurences, and now that he has 
taken to figuring in fast society it is very awkward forme. 
Every time his name is mentioned people will think lam 
the William Jones Laurence referred to. I must’do some- 
thing. ” 

“What can you do, dear?” replied his wife, who was 
a sensible little woman. “Your father is old enough to 
take care of himself, and you have no power over him. 
You can’t forbid him to go to fast parties, or to toss for 
sovereigns, or to talk to barmaids, and you can’t insert 
an advertisement to say that the William Jones Laurence 
who does these things is not you, but your papa.” 

William could only groan. He saw the force of his 
wife’s arguments, but he wondered where it was going to 
end. It was very unpleasant for a young man who had 
thoroughly reformed, and who was a shining light in 
chapel circles, to have his name mixed up with affairs of 
which he thoroughly disapproved, and it was equally 
painful for him to say, “Oh, dear, no, it wasn’t I — it was 
my father.” 

But worse trials were to come for the good young man. 
One day he received a letter from his eldest sister which 
made him break out into cold perspirations. 

“Dear Willie. What do you think Pa has done now. 
He has gone in for horse-racing. We have the ‘Sporting 
Life’ and the ‘Sportsman’ left at the house every morn- 
ing, and all day long telegrams keep coming, which I 


DFAMAS OF LIFE . 


205 


open, thinking- they may be about family matters. They 
are all this sort of thing : ‘You are on Opossum a hun- 
dred S.P.,’ ‘ Have put you fifty on Artichoke/ ‘ It is good 
business/ or ‘Tadpole for the first race. Go nap/ Isn’t 
it dreadful. Whatever can we do ? ” 

William groaned. His respected parent had taken to 
backing horses. “Good heavens/’ he muttered to him- 
self, “he’ll attend race meetings next, and get known as 
the Jubilee Plunger, or something equally dreadful. I 
think I must mention it to the Rev. Mr. Badchand, and 
ask his advice.” 

The Rev. Mr. Badchand, the minister of the chapel 
William attended and supported with liberal donations, 
listened to William’s tale, but couldn’t suggest anything 
better than sending the old gentleman a few tracts. 

“He won’t read them,” groaned William. 

“We must pray for him, then.” 

“Yes, but you can’t get up in the pulpit and say, ‘The 
prayers of this congregation are desired for an old gentle- 
man who backs horses/” 

“True,” replied Mr. Badchand. “It would look as 
though we were praying that the horses might win. If I 
were you, I would go and remonstrate with him.” 

William thought that he would, and the following even- 
ing he went to his father’s house after dinner, and after a 
few words with his sister went down into the smoking- 
room, where the old gentleman was smoking big cigars, 
and drinking soda and brandies with three or four other 
gentlemen. 

“Halloh, Willie,” said the old gentleman, “who would 
have thought of seeing you. Let me introduce you. 
Gentlemen, my son. William, this is Captain ‘ Nobby ' 
Smith, of whom you may have heard — one of the 
‘ flyest ’ men on the turf. This (pointing to another 
gentleman, with a shaven face and close-cropped red 
hair) is Mr. Joseph Potts, better known as Ginger Potts 


20 6 


DRAMAS OF LIFE . 


— never defeated in the magic circle, my boy. I’m 
finding the money for a novice of his, and we’ve made 
a match for him with Posh Jarvis, of Bethnal Green, £200 
a side, best of 12 rounds. You must come, Willie. It 
will be a rare good fight.” 

Young William rolled his eyes up to the ceiling. His 
father was actually entertaining a racing man and a fight- 
ing man under his own roof. He would be bringing off 
glove competitions in his own drawing-room on Sunday 
evenings next. 

“My dear Governor,” he stammered, “I — er didn’t 
know you had company. I wanted a few words with 
you. I — er — I’ll come again another time.” 

“ All right, Will ; always glad to see you. By-the-bye, 
if you aren’t engaged next Thursday I can give you a seat 
on our coach. We’re going to drive to the races. Only 
a small party — these gentlemen, myself, and one or two 
of the young ladies from the Frivolity.” 

William checked the cry of righteous horror that rose to 
his lips. He darted upstairs into the hall, seized his 
hat, and fled. 

The next day he called on the family solicitor. Yes, 
the family solicitor had heard about his parent’s break 
out. “I don’t think anything can be done to stop 
him,” said the F. S. “You see he was very strictly 
brought up. He led a very quiet, hard-working life till 
he was sixty, and now he’s having his fling. Men 
always sow their wild oats — when they’re young or 
when they’re old. You sowed yours young, your gover- 
nor’s sowing his now.” 

This was poor consolation, so William went to the 
family doctor. The doctor knew what was going on. 
He had known cases like it before. Still the old gentle- 
man was strong, had a fine constitution, and a head that 
could stand any amount of whiskey and water. The 
chances were he would have his fling, and then settle 
down again. 


DRAMAS OF LIFE . 


207 


Have his fling ! 

“Its awful!” groaned William. “Fancy a man of 
thirty having to look on calmly while his father ‘has his 
fling.’” 

Mr. William Jones Laurence, junior, was really worried 
about his father’s extraordinary freaks. It was desper- 
ately annoying to him to be constantly told by men on 
the Stock Exchange that they’d seen his father at the races 
drinking champagne with the great Swagg, the Music 
Hall comedian, or picnicing on a drag with the Sisters 
Screamer, but the climax was reached when, among the 
noble lords and sporting gentlemen arrested for assisting 
at a prize fight “ in the country,” there appeared the name 
of Mr. William Jones Laurence. 

The way in which William, junior, discovered his un- 
happy parent’s latest defiance of social decorum was 
highly dramatic. He lived in the part of the country 
where the prize fight took place, and he had been made 
a J. P. It was his first appearance on the Bench when a 
crowd of “swells” and fighting men, arrested in the dis- 
trict at a prize fight, were brought before the local magis- 
trates. 

Glancing at the oddly assorted mob, William with aery 
of horror, recognized his father among the prisoners. 

“ Gentlemen,” he said, to his brother magistrates, “I 
cannot sit on the Bench while this case is heard.” 

“Why not, Mr. Laurence?” said the chairman. 

“Because, gentlemen, one of the prisoners is my 
father. ” 

Then he rose and left the bench, and went out to get 
some fresh air. 


As soon as the case was over, and the prisoners, who 
were only spectators, had been discharged with a cau- 
tion, young William took his father home and talked to 
him seriously. He talked so eloquently that the old gen- 


208 


DRAMAS OF LIFE. 


tleman was deeply moved, and said that he saw the error 
of his ways. He gave his son his solemn promise that 
he would never back a horse or go to a prize fight again, 
and, being further pressed, he also agreed to give up toss- 
ing for sovereigns and chaffing barmaids. 

Six months afterwards a complete change had come 
over Mr. William Jones Laurence, senior, and William, 
junior, was rejoicing heartily when he received a telegram 
from his sister : 

“Come at once. Pa has joined the salvation army.” 

William, junior, rushed up to town, but it was too late. 
His parent had attended a meeting at the Regent Hall, 
and had been so struck by an address of General Booth’s 
that he had joined the army there and then. 

To-day he is Captain Hallelujah Jones Laurence, and 
plays an enormous trumpet, woefully out of tune. Some- 
times on Sunday afternoon, when Mr. Laurence, junior, 
is residing in town, he meets his father in full uniform, 
marching at the head of a company of salvation soldiers 
and hallelujah lasses, all yelling at the top of their voices. 

And the young fellows of the Stock Exchange come to 
him and say, “Oh, I say, Laurence, I saw your father 
last night. He said he was ‘ beautifully saved,’ and he 
was standing at the corner of Piccadilly Circus, banging 
his trumpet about the head of a cabman who’d put his 
foot through the big drum.” 

And William Jones Laurence, junior, groans once more, 
and wonders which is the lesser evil — to have a pa who 
backs horses and tosses for sovereigns, or a pa who plays 
the trumpet in the salvation army. 

He wanted his pa to be reformed and be saved, but he 
thinks now that he would have been satisfied with some- 
thing short of such extremely public salvation as must 
necessarily accompany General Booth’s uniform, and a 
blood and fire flag, and a big trumpet which the old gen- 
tleman “blows” with that tremendous amount of energy 


DRAMAS OF LIFE. 


209 

which in the army is supposed to atone for a complete 
lack of skill. 

The last time William, junior, met his parent it was in 
the street. The old gentleman was clapping his hands 
and dancing as he led the chorus of a salvation hymn to 
the tune of “We won’t go home till morning.” 

As the senior caught the junior’s eye, he stopped and 
exclaimed, in a loud voice, “Well, William, my dear son, 
I hope you are satisfied with your father now” 

Religious and respectable as Mr. William Jones Law- 
rence, junior, is, he w r as compelled to confess to himself, 
as he went red-cheeked upon his way, that he was noi. 
No power on earth will ever reconcile him to the unform 
and the trumpet. 


FOR A MAN’S LIFE. 


“What do you think of him, Gertie ?” said a handsome 
young fellow, with a decidedly military cut about him, as 
he stood with a remarkably pretty girl in front of a 
racehorse, who had just been stripped of his clothing pre- 
paratory to being sent to the post. 

“ He looks lovely,” replied the girl. 

“I should think he does,” said the trainer, who was 
putting the finishing touches to the noble animal’s toilet. 
“ He’s never been better than he is to-day since I’ve had 
him. He’s fit to run for a man’s life ! ” 

Captain Lambourne laughed, and with a parting pat on 
the neck of his gallant racer, “Drum Major,” he turned 
to his fair companion and suggested that he had better 
escort her to her seat in the members’ enclosure now, as 
he wanted to say a few words to Drum Major’s rider be- 
fore the horses went down to the post. 

As Captain Lambourne and his cousin, Gertie Holmes, 
made their way across the paddock, a tall young man with 
a pair of piercing black eyes, and a face whose peculiar 
pallor was made more noticeable by the almost raven 
blackness of his hair, moustache, and eyebrows, looked 
after them. 

“Fit to run for a man’s life ! ” he muttered hoarsely to 
himself. “I wonder what they would think if they knew 
that he is running for mine ! ” 


The scene was Kempton Park, and the occasion was 
the first of December meeting. It was an admirable day 


DRAMAS OF LIFE . 


2 1 1 


for steeple-chasing-. The ground was, if anything, a little 
too much on the soft side, but that was all. The atmos- 
phere was clear and bright, and the spectators would be 
able to see the racing from start to finish. 

The great race of the day was not a particularly valu- 
able one, but several first-class steeple-chasers had entered, 
and the field promised to be large. The betting had. 
opened at two to one on the field, but after a little prelim- 
inary skirmishing between backers and layers it had settled 
down as the horses cantered past the stands on their way 
to the post, with 6 to 4 against Bonnie Scotland, 2 to 1 
The Proctor, 5 to 1 Drum Major, 8 to 1 Catamaran, and 
from 10 to 1 to 100 to 8 the others. 

Drum Major was the property of Captain Lambourne, 
familiarly known as Hughie among his friends, and was 
to be ridden by a popular gentleman jockey. The Cap- 
tain had a modest pony on at 5 to 1. He was not a gam- 
bler, keeping only a small stud, and racing for the love of 
sport. Gertie Holmes, who was one day to be Mrs. Lam- 
bourne, stood in this leviathan bet to the extent of one 
sovereign, which it is needless to say was not “ready,” 
and would not be too anxiously enquired for on settling 
day if Drum Major had the misfortune to be beaten. 

The tall, dark young man who had uttered the extraor- 
dinary soliloquy about the horse running for a man’s life, 
did not leave the paddock until the horses had passed 
through the gate. He waited and watched Drum Major. 
He tried to catch the few words that the trainer said to the 
acquaintance who came up and spoke to him, but the 
trainer was not very communicative, and what he did say 
didn’t amount to much, only that he thought he had a good 
chance, but he was afraid of the favorite, Bonnie Scotland. 

“ How does the Major jump ? ” the young fellow heard 
one man say. 

“Like a cat,” was the trainer’s reply, which to anyone 
versed in racing parlance was reassuring information. 


212 


DRAMAS OF LIFE. 


Still the watcher’s face wore an anxious look, and his 
under-lip trembled nervously. 

Presently Captain Lambourne, having seen his fair cou- 
sin safely ensconced in a good position to view the race, 
returned to the paddock, and came up to his horse just as 
the jockey was mounting. 

“ Do you think you can beat the favorite this journey, 
Arthur ? ” he asked. 

The rider nodded. 

“ It’ll be a close thing between us,” he said in a low 
voice. “Young Nightingale thinks he’s got a real good 
thing. He’s never been beaten on Bonnie Scotland yet, 
and the ‘sharps ’ are putting their money down on him to 
a man, but with anything like luck I fancy I shall just do 
him, if the Major’s improved as much as you say he has. 
What’s his price now ? ” 

“Six to one now,” replied the Captain. “There’s a lot 
of money come into the market just now for Catamaran, 
and that’s made my horse a bit easy.” 

“ Then look here, old fellow, you go and put £50 on the 
Major for me, and I’ll have a pony on the favorite just to 
save myself. I’m certain that, bar a fall, there’ll only be 
two of us in the finish.” 

The tall dark young man turned away. He had heard 
enough. Drum Major’s rider evidently feared the favo- 
rite. 

That had unnerved him a little, but the thing that upset 
him most was the “ bar a fall.” 

A fall is a thing that has always to be reckoned with 
in steeple'chasing. The best horse may go down, often 
through no fault of his own or its rider. Many a gallant 
steed who seemed to be coming in alone has come to grief 
even at the last hurdle. Many a favorite, with the money 
piled ‘on him, as though defeat were an impossibility, has 
been brought down in a scrimmage before half the distance 
has been traversed. 


DRAMAS OF LIFE 


2 f 3 


Still the Major jumped like a cat — he was a horse who 
“ stood up,” and his rider was one of the most confident 
and most experienced amateurs of the day. 

After all, what did it matter. Only one horse can be 
the absolute winner. Lose to-day and win to-morrow — 
it’s only the difference of paying or receiving on Monday. 

Yes— in most cases. 

But in this case Drum Major was running for a man’s 
life. 

Walter Gordon, the young man who had taken such 
an intense interest in all that concerned Captain Lam- 
bourne’s horse, had committed the crowning act of mad- 
ness of two long years of folly. At the age of three- 
and-twenty, owing to the death of an aged relative 
who had lived a miserly life and accumulated a fortune 
of £100,000, young Walter Gordon found himself in 
possession of £50,000, half of the estate being left to 
himself, and half to a young lady, a distant cousin of his. 
This is not a large sum, as fortunes run now-a-days ; but 
to a young fellow who from the age of 18 had had to 
make his own way in the world, and live on the modest 
salary of a lawyer’s clerk, it was wealth surpassing his 
wildest dreams. 

Walter Gordon, at the time^his fortune came to him, 
was a young fellow with neither father nor mother. He 
had married a sweet, good little girl who went to busi- 
ness, and continued to do so after their marriage, as 
between them they only just earned enough to pay the 
rent of their furnished rooms and the incidental expenses 
of domestic life. 

Bessie Gordon was quite contented to go on working. 
She got home at six, which was half an hour before 
Walter returned, and that gave her time to make things com- 
fortable and have a nice cosy tea waiting for him. The 
happy evenings they spent together fully compensated 
them for the labors of the day. 


214 


DRAMAS OF LIFE. 


Sometimes they would stay at home and Walter would 
read aloud. Sometimes they would go out and see the 
shops, and now and then, when they had managed by 
strict economy to save a sovereign, they would buy some 
small ornament or article of furniture. Some day they 
hoped to have their own rooms, perhaps their own little 
house, and so they bought something towards “their 
little home ” every time they had a little money put by. 

And then suddenly, without a word of warning, for- 
tune swooped down upon them, and Walter Gordon and 
his good little wife got up one fine morning to find them- 
selves worth £50,000. 

Walter could hardly believe the news at first, but as 
soon as he thoroughly realized the situation he seized 
Bessie round the waist and whirled her round and round 
their little sitting-room in a mad polka of excitement and 

j°y- 

The landlady rushed up to see what was the matter, 
for the whole house (a forty-five pound a year London 
house) rocked and swayed to a polka tune. Houses of 
this description are run up to be let, not to be danced in. 

Walter informed the astonished landlady of what had 
happened, and gave her notice that they were going to 
leave. Then he rushed <5ff to the office, handed in his 
resignation there, and drove to the lawyers who had his 
relative’s business in hand, and received some money on 
account, and he and Bessie wound up the day of wild 
excitement by a lovely dinner at the Criterion and a box 
at the Alhambra. 

Bessie was, of course, delighted at the good fortune 
which had befallen her young husband, but- she was just 
a little bit anxious about the way it would affect him. 
Bessie, who had known the sting of poverty in her child- 
hood, who had come home to find the brokers in her 
father’s house, who had seen her mother, old and feeble, 
going round to old friends in a futile endeavor to borrow 


DRAMAS OF LIFE. 


215 

the money to save herself and her daughter from being 
turned into the street for a loan-office debt contracted by 
her husband, was terribly afraid that Walter would be 
extravagant, and not take care of the money that had 
come to him so unexpectedly. 

Walter, on the contrary, was fully convinced that he 
was made for life — that with £50,000 he could live the 
life of a Duke. He must have a house at once — a house 
in a good street, he must furnish it in the latest and the 
grandest style, he must buy Bessie diamonds, and he 
would have a horse and carriage. 

The young man had no one to advise him except his 
good little wife, and what young fellow of three-and- 
twenty takes his wife’s advice ? And so he began by 
spending his capital instead of investing it and living on 
the interest. 

Unfortunately, with the access of fortune, he developed 
the gambling instinct which was in him, and which had 
only been repressed by his lack of funds and his early 
marriage to a good and loving little girl. As soon as the 
securities had all been converted, and the hard cash was 
safely lodged in a bank to the account of Mr. Walter 
Gordon, that young gentleman turned his attention to 
sport, and became a regular attendant at race meetings. 

Poor Bessie, who saw how things were going, was in 
despair. Over and over again she wished that they were 
back again in their two little rooms in Camden Town. 
Walter wasn’t unkind. He gave her money, jewels, 
dresses — everything except himself. He was constantly 
away from home, and when he returned, late at night, he 
was jaded and weary with the excitement of the day. 

The end of such a career was not difficult to see. It 
came, in about four years, to Walter Gordon. At the end 
of that time the whole of his money had been lost on the 
turf and at cards, and he was in debt. To meet his liabili- 
ties he stripped his home and sold his furniture, and he 


2l6 


DRAMAS OF LIFE. 


and poor Bessie were once more in furnished apartments. 
The money had brought them only misery. Alas ! when 
poverty came again, it did not bring back the old happiness. 
Walter Gordon, like all gamblers, still believed he would 
retrieve his bad luck, and that Fortune would smile on 
him again. 

Grown desperate as he saw the last of his money swal- 
lowed up in the vortex, he still wagered heavily. Poor 
Bessie gave up her jewels, and her husband sold them to 
get ready money, and at last he came to such a desperate 
strait that a horse was running for his life. 

On the day that Walter Gordon stood in the paddock at 
Kempton Park and tried to hear all he could about Drum 
Major, he had brought himself to the pass that unless he 
could leave the race-course with the knowledge that on 
the following Monday he would have £500 to receive, he 
was a ruined man, a degraded and dishonored man, and 
he would either have to fly the country, or wait till the 
law laid violent hands upon him and dragged him away 
to a prison cell. 

There was no more wretched man in all England that 
day than Walter Gordon. The thought of poor Bessie 
maddened him. Do what he would, he could not shut 
out the thought of the misery he had brought upon her as 
well as upon himself. Her faithful, loving little heart had 
long been well-nigh broken, and yet she had hidden her 
sorrow and anguish, and bravely tried to cheer her hus- 
band towards a brave endeavor to start a working life 
anew. 

But the instinct of the gambler had triumphed over the 
instinct of the husband, and when all his money was 
gone, to find the means of having one more bout with 
fortune, the misguided young man had descended to a 
criminal act. He had been in the habit of receiving 
checks at one time from the solicitors who were realizing 
the assets of his dead relative. Those checks, before he 


DRAMAS OF LIFE . 


217 

had a banking account, he had obtained money for from 
a man with whom he did business in the city. 

To this man he had now gone in a desperate effort to 
raise money, with a check for £800, purporting to be 
drawn in his favor by the solicitors. He had told a round- 
about story — the check was post-dated the following 
Tuesday, as the money was not due till then — the 
solicitor had given him the check in advance, as the 

solicitor was going out of town — would Mr. lend 

him five hundred on it, as he was temporarily short of 
money, and he would redeem the check on Tuesday. If 
he did not, Mr. could pay it in. 

The check was a forgery. 

He had written the solicitors’ names on one of his own 
checks — a check left over- from the days of his banking 
account. 

One wonders how men can be so mad as to do these 
things when detection stares them in the face, but a certain 
kind of gambler is beyond the arguments of reason or 
common-sense. 

He believes that he will be able to put matters right. 
He is always going to win enough to square up with. 

Walter Gordon believed that, during the week, with that 
£500, he would win enough to redeem the check and 
save it from being presented. 

But all the week he had been unlucky, and now, with 
the desperation of a mad gambler, he had put the hundred 
he had left on Drum Major. He had been assured by a 
tipster with whom at one time he had done business, that 
it was a real good thing; that it was a “cert that it 
wouldn’t be beaten ; and he had gone to one of the big 
men in the ring and given him his £100 “ready.” 

The bookmaker knew Gordon in his plunging days, 
and knew him to be, in the language of the ring, “stony 
broke.” He would not have bet with him “on the nod.” 
Walter knew it, and so he staked his money. 


2l8 


DRAMAS OF LIFE. 


“If I win,” he said, “ you can let me have a check on 
Monday. Don’t pay me this afternoon, or I shall lose the 
lot, perhaps.” 

The bookmaker laughed. He knew that if he paid him 
or not, on the strength of his winnings, Gordon, like a 
genuine gambler, would go on and “ play it up.” 

This was the position of affairs as Walter Gordon saw 
Drum Major go down to the post. He had made up his 
mind if Drum Major lost he would blow his brains out. 
He would never survive the shame and disgrace of being 
prosecuted for forgery. 

Drum Major was fit to run for a man’s life, and he was 
running for one. 

The Stand was packed. Every face was turned towards 
the starting-point. 

“ They’re off.” 

The horses came by the Stand for the first time, all 
going easy and well together. Drum Major jumped 
splendidly, so did Bonnie Scotland. The obstacles were 
cleared in faultless style. At the far jump two horses 
came to grief, and Bonnie Scotland and Drum Major went 
on well ahead, followed by Catamaran. Four hurdles 
from home, there were only four runners, the others had 
come to grief, the fourth horse being rapidly beaten off. 

Bonnie Scotland and Drum Major were beginning to 
race together now, and Catamaran was coming along 
about ten lengths behind them. 

“ Bonnie Scotland wins ! ” yelled the spectators. “ He 
doesn’t. Drum Major a pony ! ” yelled another. Drum 
Major and Bonnie Scotland cleared the last hurdle but 
one, neck-and-neck. “ Drum Major’s done ! ” yelled the 
crowd as his jockey was seen to be flogging. The last 
hurdle was reached, and then there went up a wild yell. 
At the last hurdle Bonnie Scotland blundered and Drum 
Major, clearing the hurdle like a cat, came on for home. 
“ ioo to i on Drum Major,” yelled the crowd, and Walter 


DRAMAS OF LIFE. 


219 

Gordon, forgetting himself in the mad excitement, cried 
“Thank God — thank God ! ” 

And at that moment Catamaran, who had come up on 
the near side, suddenly shot ahead, and, as Drum Major 
was being eased, came with a tremendous rush, and 
caught him on the post. 

Then arose a wild hubbub. “The Major’s won.” 
“Catamaran’s won ! ” 

Then a breathless hush. 

The numbers are going up ! 

Catamaran 1. 

The judge had given the race to Catamaran by a short 
head ! 

“ Oh, what a shame ! ” cried Gertie Holmes, as Captain 
Lambourne put his race-glasses down and gave a little 
grunt of dissatisfaction. 

“What a beastly fluke,” said the Captain, and then he 
added under his breath, “ Catamaran !” 

Walter Gordon, who had stood as if petrified when 
Catamaran came with that wild rush and caught the 
Major, gave one agonized glance at the numbers, waited 
a second, and then, buttoning up his racecoat, strode 
away from the course. 

Walter Gordon strode away from the course, and 
pandered he knew not whither. He didn’t go to the 
railway station ; he didn’t want to return to London. He 
wanted to get to some lonely spot and blow his brains 
out. 

He had a loaded revolver in his pocket. He had carried 
it about with him for weeks past — ever since the idea of 
suicide had entered his brain. 

He wandered out of Kempton Park into the high road, 
and kept tramping on. He wouldn't think of anybody 
or anything. He tried to shut out every idea save one, 


220 


DRAMAS OF LIFE . 


and that one was, that before to-morrow’s sun arose he 
must take his own life. 

Presently he came to Hampton Court. He was hungry. 
It didn’t matter, as he was going to die presently, but he 
had an idea that he should like to eat and drink first. 

He went into one of the hotels, walked into the coffee- 
room which was empty, and had some cold meat and a 
cup of tea. Then he felt better and stronger, and taking 
a leaf out of his betting-book wrote only one little line on 
it, and addressed it to his wife. “God bless you, dear. 
It is all for the best. Walter.” 

Then he looked out of the window and saw that it was 
beginning to rain. A wet night in a country place is an 
abomination. He might just as well commit his suicide 
at once and have done with it. 

He pulled his chair up by the fire and picked up a news- 
paper and sat reading until the traps began to drive up 
and some of the people returning from the races began to 
come in. He had come to grief over the second race and 
left early, which allowed time to walk to Hampton and 
be there long before the people who only left after the 
last race. 

He didn’t want to sit among a lot of people, so he rose, 
paid his bill and went out into the night. It was still 
raining. 

He felt the pistol and took it out of his pocket. He 
was in a quiet part of the road — now was the time. 

He raised the pistol, put the muzzle in his mouth, put 
his finger on the trigger, when he suddenly recollected 
that on leaving home that day his wife had given him a 
letter which had just come, and which he had put in his 
pocket unopened. 

That letter saved his life. 

He put the pistol in his pocket to open the letter and see 
what was in it. Striking a vesta, and shielding it from 
the wind, he read the letter. 


DRAMAS OF LIFE . 


221 


It was from the solicitors whose name he had forged, 
informing him that the lady, a distant cousin of his, to 
whom the other half of the old man’s fortune of £100,000 
had been left, had died suddenly, and that, as she was un- 
married, under the terms of the will the property would 
now come to him. 

He had never dreamed of his cousin dying. His cousin 
was as young as he was, and he had supposed that she 
would marry and have children. He had never counted 
upon her inheritance falling to him. 

And it was with a letter like that in his pocket he had 
gone through the agony of watching a horse run for his 
life, and had been upon the point of blowing his brains 
out. 


None of that second £50,000 has gone on horse-racing. 
Walter Gordon has had enough of that to last him his life- 
time. He has left the securities of his cousin’s undisturbed, 
and he and Bessie live happily and contentedly on the in- 
terest. But he never hears people speak of a horse being 
fit to run for a man’s life without thinking of the day when 
Drum Major ran for his, and very nearly lost it for him. 


“A PUT-UP JOB.” 


“Some men has plenty money and no brains; some 
men has plenty brains and no money.” I forget for the 
moment the immortal words of the British nobleman who 
“ languished in gaol,” and who made Wappiirg famous in 
the annals of the Law Courts, but they were intended to 
convey the pleasing moral that it was the duty of penniless 
sharps to prey upon wealthy flats. 

It is only fair to this former large and daily increasing 
class to say that they fully recognize the now proverbial 
philosophy of the Brobdignagian butcher, who was quoted 
for awhile as a B. of B. K., or Baronet of the British 
Kingdom, and endeavored to act up to it. 

Never a day passes but some pretty little scheme is 
concocted by the sharp division for the purpose of easing 
the flat division of their superfluous cash, and some of 
these schemes are elaborated with a skill, and carried out 
with a finesse, which raise swindling to the dignity of a 
high art. Startling indeed are the stories current in 
certain circles of the dodges by which a few clever and 
unscrupulous adventurers have continued to annex por- 
tions of the spare capital of young men of fortune who 
“ fancy ” themselves as “ noble sportsmen,” and who are 
generally the last persons to suspect how systematically 
they have been done. 

Some of the biggest robberies which have been com- 
mitted in this way are too intricate to be understood, save 
by those who are thoroughly well up in the details of those 


DRAMAS OF LIFE . 


223 

national sports, such asT racing and pigeon-shooting, which 
admit of heavy wagering. 

One sweetly simple instance of a “put-up job " which 
had for its origin the despoiling of a wealthy young patri- 
cian, however, occurs to me, which a child could under- 
stand, and as it is a little drama of life — a comedy drama, 
or a farcical drama if you like, I shall make no apology 
for including it in these series. 

When the Hon. Tom McRoysterer, by the death of his 
father, came into a fortune variously estimated from £100,- 
000 to £200,000 a year, he was a young gentleman who 
had already given considerable promise of being a great 
acquisition to the ranks of modern Tom and Jerrydom. 
His chambers were already decorated with portraits of 
ballet ladies, race horses, and fighting men, and his com- 
mand of low language was declared to be almost unique. 

The money he had as soon as he attained his majority, 
and the fortune that was to come to him at the death of 
his father, soon secured him a crowd of admirers among 
a certain class, and as these people laughed at his assump- 
tion of the language and manners of a racecourse rough, 
and never failed to assure him that he was the “flyest” 
cove they ever met, it was small wonder that the Hon. 
Tom rapidly developed into a swaggering vulgar rowdy 
of the most pronounced type, and came at last to believe 
that, with his money to back him up, he could do as he 
chose, and outrage the conventionalities with impunity. 

Apart from his fame in racing circles, he enjoyed a 
tremendous reputation as a patron of the prize ring, as the 
ring is now constituted. Many a hundred pounds of his 
did young gentlemen of the pugilistic persuasion playfully 
knock each other about with boxing gloves for, and he 
was eagerly run after by the promoters of boxing com- 
petitions, tournaments, etc. 

The Hon. Tom had lots of money, a great deal more 
than he wanted, and as he was proud of being considered 


224 


DRAMAS OF LIFE. 


a patron of the noble art, the noble artists didn’t see why 
they shouldn’t get a bit of it for themselves. 

And so the Hon. Tom was gracefully “ cut up ” among 
them. For his benefit barney after barney was got up, 
matches were made for fabulous sums between real 
pugilists, and he was constantly being introduced to men 
whom it would be worth his while to find the stake money 
for. It is needless to say that in nine cases out often the 
Hon. Tom’s money was divided between the winner and 
the loser and the select crew, which usually “stands in a 
bit” when “ mug’s money” is to be “ touched.” 

The gentle reader must pardon me a certain slanginess 
of expression. It is inseparable from the subject, a subject 
which has given many words and expressions to the 
English language — words and expressions which are now 
classical. 

In the halls of St. Stephen’s itself during a debate on 
which hangs the fate of a ministry, you may hear such ex- 
pressions as “hitting below the belt,” “fighting with 
gloved hands,” throwing up the sponge,” “failing to come 
up to time,” “ coming up smiling,” “ first blood , ’’ etc., etc., 
and all these expressions originated in the Prize Ring. 

But of all the nice little schemes which were hatched by 
the fraternity to get money out of the Hon. Tom. Mc- 
Roysterer, the neatest and the best was that conceived and 
carried out by one man, William Burgess, commonly 
known as “Bill.” 

Bill Burgess was attached to the Hon. Tom’s suit in 
a very humble capacity. He was simply one of half 
a dozen young fellows who could use their fists, and 
who, for a small consideration, accompanied him to race 
meetings, prize fights, and sundry places of fast resort 
in the West End and the East End, in order to take care of 
him should his bad behavior or his drunken insolence 
call down upon him the vengeance of an individual, or of 
the mob. 


DRAMAS OF LIFE. 


225 


The technical name for these young fellows is 
“minders.” A “minder” is a bully who accompanies 
“a swell,” and sets about his aggressors, or protects him 
from aggression. 

The head minder, who selected and “bossed” the 
gang, and whose orders they were expected to obey, was 
a middle-aged professional pugilist named “Ginger” 
Jones. 

He was currently reported to be in receipt of a thousand 
a year from the Hon. Tom, and in addition to this when- 
ever there was likely to be trouble, he received a fiver 
or a tenner with which he was supposed to hire “a mob ” 
in the shape of five or six minor lights of the boxing 
fraternity. 

Bill Burgess was one of the minor lights. He had won 
one or two small competitions at the East End, but he 
was very clever at street fighting, or “in a row ; ” and 
having given proof of the skill with which he could use 
his fists in a rough-and-tumble melee, he was favorably 
noticed by Ginger Jones, who added him to the Hon. Tom’s 
little army of “minders.” 

Bill Burgess was five and twenty, and ambitious. He 
had a head as well as a couple of hands, and he was 
by no means satisfied with the position he had attained. 
His regular trade was bad, and he was convinced that he 
would never attain to anything like a position as a glove- 
fighter. 

And without a position Mr. William Burgess didn’t see 
that he was likely to do much good for himself by stand- 
ing up to be knocked about for the edification of the mob. 
I have said that he was an ambitious young gentleman. 
There was a reason for his ambition. He had fallen 
desperately in love with a charming young lady who 
was a barmaid at the “Gentleman and Magpie,” in the 
Whitechapel Road, and he seriously contemplated matri- 
mony. 


226 


DRAMAS OF LIFE. 


But the young lady not unnaturally objected that a 
husband who had to fight for his living, and was not 
particularly lucky in his contests, was not on the whole 
a husband that a girl could look up to with confidence. 

Polly — her name was Polly — had been brought up in 
the public-house line all her life, and her great idea was to 
have a public house of her own some day by marrying 
the proprietor of one. 

Poor Bill Burgess, who popped the question, being car- 
ried away by his feelings, with a fearful black eye, the 
result ofa “ fight to a finish ” in which he had been en- 
gaged on the previous evening, confessed with a sigh 
that the chances of his ever having a public-house were 
exceedingly remote. 

The money he received now and then for helping to 
“ mind" the Hon. Tom. was only just enough to buy him 
the nice clothes in which he came courting Polly, and 
this sum was not very largely augmented by his pro- 
fessional gains at the East End, which usually consisted 
of the coppers which the spectators dropped into his hat 
when he went round and said, “Don’t forget the loser, 
gentleman, please." 

Polly confessed that she “liked "him, that if she saw 
a prospect of his getting on in life she would be quite 
willing to love him and marry him ; but that, having 
been carefully brought up, and knowing the value of money 
and the extreme inconvenience that arises from a lack of 
it, she was fully determined not to risk an imprudent 
marriage. 

Poor Bill Burgess, who had been badly beaten on the 
previous night, put his hand to his black eye, which was 
painful, and wiped away a tear. 

Polly’s business-like little answer had dashed his hopes 
to the ground. He saw no earthly chance of ever win- 
ning what Polly would call “a good match." 

He went home that night in a melancholy frame of 
mind. 


DRAMAS OF LIFE. 


227 


If he could only have developed champion form, and 
had the luck to get in with the “ nobs,” and fight for the 
£500 and the £1,000 stakes which were so readily provided 
for the pets of the Prize Ring, he would have a good 
chance of getting his public house, but Bill was wise 
enough to know that clever and quick and plucky as he 
was, he could never emerge from the second-class rank 
of “ scrappers.” 

The only pal he had who was likely to give him a 
chance and get him on was Ginger Jones, and Ginger 
thought he’d done a real good thing for him when he 
took him on at a pound a time to make one of the Hon. 
Tom’s “minders.” 

“Now, iflcoulddo something for Mr. McRoysterer,” 
thought Bill to himself, as he lay and tossed from side to 
side in bed, “he’s free with his money, and he might do 
something for me. But he don’t hardly know me by 
sight. He chucks his money about, but I don’t get none 
of it. I wonder if he’d put up £500 for me to fight for if 
Ginger was to make him believe that I was a wonder ? 
But I ain’t a wonder, and it’s 50 to 1 as they’d find a man 
to fight me as would make my chance of the coin a 
mighty small one.” 

The more Bill thought about his chance with pretty 
Polly, the more difficult it seemed to him to make it a 
good one, and he finally fell asleep fully persuaded that 
he was the most unhappy young man on the surface of 
the globe, and that Polly would never be Mrs. Burgess. 

The next morning Bill received a message from Ginger 
Jones, telling him that he was to be at a certain place 
at seven o’clock the next evening on business. Bill 
kept the appointment, and found Ginger waiting for 
him. 

“ Do you want to make a tenner. Bill?” said Ginger. 

Bill rather thought he did. 

“Well, then, look here. The Hon. Tom’s been on the 


228 


DRAMAS OF LIFE. 


drink for the last week and he’s nearly mad. He’s going 
to-morrow night to Jack Smith’s at Shoreditch to see the 
fig-ht between the two novices, and there’ll be one or two 
of the boys there who owe him one, and I expect they’ll 
go for him. He expects so too, himself, but I’ve told 
him I’ll take care of him and it’ll be bad for anybody 
that starts on him. Do you understand ? ” 

“Yes, I understand,” said Bill, “you want me to be 
one of your mob and fight if it comes to anything ? ” 

“No, you ain’t quite got it, Bill, yet, the price for that 
sort of thing ain’t a tenner.” 

“Well, then, what do you want me to do ? ” said Bill. 
“ I’ll tell you. It’s just on the cards that the boys’ll 
think better of it, and won’t go for him. He’s begin- 
ning to think already that he’s so popular that he’s quite 
safe alone, and that don’t suit my book.” 

“Of course not,” said Bill. 

“Well, this is where your tenner comes in. I want 
you to get among the boys and tell ’em we’re all sick of 
the Boss’s goings-on, and we should like him to get a 
hiding, and if they go for him we won’t interfere.” 

“Well, I’m blowed,” exclaimed Bill, opening his one 
eye to its widest extent, (the other being black and 
swollen wouldn’t open at all) “ ain’t that giving him away 
rather. Why, they’ll murder him.” 

“No, they won’t,” said Ginger, “you aint half ‘fly.’ 
I shall have a good mob ready, and the moment the boys 
start we shall smother ’em. You see we want to give the 
Boss a show for his money. If we make him believe 
we’ve saved his life he’ll come down handsome. It’ll be 
worth £500 to me.” , 

The word £500 had a magical effect on Bill’s under- 
standing. That was just the sum he had been dreaming 
about. It was the sum he had fixed as the price of 
Polly’s hand, and the first start towards the public-house. 
“When is it ? ” said Bill, after a moment’s cogitation. 


DRAMAS OF LIFE . 


229 


“ To-morrow night.” 

“And I’m to egg the boys on to go for the boss if they 
don’t make a move of their own accord ? ” 

“ Yes. ” 

“And I’m to have a tenner for the job.” 

“Yes. Is it a bargain ? ” 

“Yes,” replied Bill, “it’s a bargain. There’s my 
hand.” 

“Only remember,” said Ginger, “it’s no fight, no 
money ; you’ll have to earn the tenner. ” 

“ I’ll earn it,” replied Bill, winking his one sound eye, 
“ you can bet your bottom dollar on that.” 

Bill had a glass with his patron, and then wished him 
good-night. 

As soon as he got out into the street, he walked very 
slowly. 

He was thinking. He had got half an idea in his head 
and he wanted to make it a whole one. 

£500 ! 

To make the Hon. Tom McRoysterer believe that he 
had been saved from a jolly good hiding would be worth 
£500 to Ginger Jones. Why shouldn’t it be worth £500 
to Bill Burgess ? ” 

Bill Burgess went straight to a man he knew, a- rough 
and ready rowdy who was a well-known character in 
sporting circles, and whose room was generally more 
acceptable than his company. He had lately fallen on 
particularly bad times, and Bill knew that he would do 
pretty nearly anything for money. 

The gentleman in question was easily found at one of 
his usual houses of call. Bill went into the bar and gave 
him the “office” to come outside. Mr. Joe Cully — that 
was the gentleman’s name — drank up at once and fol- 
lowed Bill Burgess into the street. 

“Joe/’ said Mr. Burgess, “would you like to earn a 
tenner ? ” 


230 


DRAMAS OF LIFE . 


It is not necessary to reproduce the language in which 
Mr. Cully expressed his willingness to earn such a gor- 
geous amount of money. 

“Very well, then, you shall, but before I tell you what 
you’ve got to do, you’ve got to take your oath you’ll 
never mention the circumstances to a soul except your 
brother Sam ? ” 

“What’s Sam got to do with it? ” 

“He’ll have to be with you on the job, and there’s 
another tenner for him. Twenty pounds between you. 
Will you swear for yourself, and make Sam swear too?” 

“Yes, I’ll swear anything, and so’ll Sam.” 

“ Very good, and I know you’ll keep your oath, for if 
you round on me I’ll say what I know about the Camden 
Town job.’’ 

This was a delicate little hint concerning a fraud on 
a publican in which the amiable brothers were con- 
cerned, and of which they were not suspected by their 
victim or the police.” 

“You needn’t make no threats, Bill,” said Mr. Cully, 
“it won’t pay either on us to round on you, and so we 
sha’n’t. Now, then, what’s the job, and where’s the 
money ? ” 

“Job first, Cully, and money afterwards — next morning. 
Honor bright ! ” 

“ All right — what have we got to do ? ” 

“Not much. To-morrow evening I want you and 
your brother to wait at the top of the alley that leads to 
Jack Smith’s place. You know the alley that the boys 
gets half-a-quid for seeing the swells safe through after a 
boxing match.” 

“I know — well.” 

“You and your brother are to wait there till you see 
the Hon. Tom McRoysterer get out of his cab, then you 
are to go straight up to him and hit him on the nose and 
say you’ll do for him, and your brother’s to come up and 
hit him in the stomach at the same time.” 


DRAMAS OF LIFE . 


23 1 


“Hard?” 

“No ! don't hurt him — only frighten him, then I shall 
be passing and I shall set about you both and knock you 
down one after the other.” 

“Well, I’m blowedl” 

“You can go down easy so I shan't have to hurt you 
— but I want you to swear you mean murder, and use 
the strongest language you know.” 

“Well, of all the rum goes ! ” exclaimed Mr. Cully, you 
want us to knock your Boss about and you — ” Suddenly 
Mr. Cully stopped short and burst into a violent fit of 
laughter. Mr. Burgess’s little plant had suddenly dawned 
upon him. 

“Well, Bill,” he exclaimed, you’re a beauty, and no 
mistake. I see your game.” 

“Never mind my game. Will you play your part of 
it.” 

“Yes, but you ought to make it five and twenty be- 
tween us.” 

“Very well — five and twenty — that’s your share, but 
not a shilling more ; so don’t try any bounce. Yes — or 
no ?” 

“Yes.” 

Mr. Burgess gave his confederate a few more words of 
instruction, and then went home and went to bed and 
dreamed that he had married Polly and taken a public- 
house, and that he was doing such a roaring trade he 
had to get a policeman to come behind the bar and help 
to serve. 

The next evening the Hon. Tom McRoysterer arrived 
to see the glove fight at Jack Smith’s. He dismissed 
his hansom at the top of the alley, and was turning to 
enter it when he received a blow on the nose. 

Before he could put his hands up he received another 
in the stomach. 


DRAMAS OF LIFE. 


232 

He had come from his private house, and all his 
“ minders ” were inside Jack Smiths waiting for him. 

He was helpless, and was about to yell murder when 
a young fellow rushed forward and, fighting like a cham- 
pion, knocked his two assailants into the gutter. 

Then he seized the Hon. Tom by the arm and dragged 
him away. “This way, sir, ” he cried. “ There’s half-a- 
dozen of ’em inside waiting for you. It’s a plant. If 
you go in there you’ll be murdered. Your mob have 
been bought over, and the boys are going for you.” 

Mr. William Burgess took the Hon. Tom, who was far 
from sober, back to his chambers, where he bathed his 
nose and had some neat brandy for the pain in his 
stomach. 

“By , my lad, you’ve saved my life to-night, and 

I won’t forget you.” said the Hon. Tom, “but for you 
those wretches would have killed me. Call to-morrow 
morning, and I’ll give you a check for £500. I’ll start 

you in a public-house. By , there’s nothing I won’t 

do for you.” 

“I only protected you, sir,” said Bill, “ and I don’t 
want any reward.” 

It was very wrong of Bill Burgess to tell such a story, 
but what can you expect from a young fellow brought up 
as he had been. In his case it was a deliberate untruth, 
but had he been a statesman instead of a prizefighter it 
would have been called diplomacy. 

He protested that in saving his patron he had only done 
his duty, and he modestly shook his head at the idea of 
being recompensed. 

It was a noble sentiment and worthy of an English- 
man. 

But Bill Burgess came the next morning, and he received 
the £500, out of which the brothers Cully had £25, and 
the Hon. Tom kept his word, and is his best patron to 
this day. He started Bill in a public-house, and Bill mar- 
ried Polly, and is doing remarkably well. 


DRAMAS OF LIFE . 


233 


Ginger Jones and Bill Burgess never speak as they pass 
by. Ginger knows that Bill sold him, but he can't say so 
to the Hon. Tom without confessing that he, Ginger, had 
arranged a nice little plot at Jack Smith's, of which the 
Hon. Tom was to be the victim. 

I have altered the names of the parties to this little trans- 
action for obvious reasons, but the story is absolutely true, 
and I still consider it one of the cleverest “ put-up jobs" 
that has ever been brought off by a sharp for the benefit 
of a wealthy flat. That wealthy flat still considers him- 
self * ‘ the flyest cove " in London. 


JIM CROWE’S SISTER. 


Her real name was Jemima Crowe, but she was called 
Jim Crowe by her friends and associates. 

Jim was general servant to the Pargeters. The Pargeters 
were a respectable family who left the country to settle in 
London. Sam Pargeter when he married Susan Green 
was clerk to a country builder. He thought London was 
a place where he would be safe to “better ” himself, and 
so when his only daughter, little Susan, was four years 
old the family came up to town. His wife had saved a 
little money — a very little — but enough to enable him to 
furnish a small house in the suburbs. The Pargeters oc- 
cupied a portion of it, and the drawing-room floor they let 
off in apartments. Mrs. Pargeter was a good plain cook, 
but she couldn’t do all the housework and attend to “the 
drawing room ” as well, and so a general servant was 
advertised for, and Jemima Crowe applied for and obtained 
the situation. 

From the first moment that Jemima came to them the 
Pargeters liked her. There was a blunt, straightforward 
honesty about her which delighted them, and she soon 
proved herself a faithful and attached servant. She knew 
London, and the Pargeters didn’t. She was up to the ways 
of London tradespeople and the Pargeters weren’t. She 
was a good judge of character, and could read a lodger up 
and down after one good look at him or her, and poor Mrs. 
Pargeter would have taken in a burglar in the blindest 
confidence if one had knocked at the door and applied for 


DRAMAS OF LIFE . 


235 

the apartments, which were advertised by card in the 
window. All these things soon made Jemima Crowe 
something more than the Pargeters’ general servant. She 
became their guide, their counsellor, and their friend. 

When the drawing-rooms were vacant and a lady 
or gentleman applied, it was Jemima who conducted the 
negotiations. It was Jemima who showed the rooms, it 
was Jemima who expatiated upon the healthiness of the 
locality, the quietness of the house, and the respectability 
of the family, and it was Jemima who delicately hinted 
that references were required, and that the payment of a 
week’s rent in advance was not itself a sufficient guaran- 
tee of a lodger’s respectability. 

When the apartments were let and the new lodgers in- 
stalled, it was Jemima whose quick eye took in every de- 
tail, and reckoned them up, and settled off hand whether 
they were good lodgers to be studied and retained, or 
“ worritting ” lodgers to be diplomatically got rid of. 

“ I don’t know whatever I should do without Jemima,” 
Mrs. Pargeter would say to her husband, and though Mr. 
Pargeterknew, he was too kind a husband to give his wife 
the information. He was perfectly well aware that with- 
out Jemima there would be a chaos at Sudbury Villa, Hol- 
loway, and that the lodgers would either never pay their 
rent or leave, because they could not get properly attended 
to. Mrs. Pargeter was a good cook, a loving wife, a de- 
voted mother, and as good-hearted a little woman as ever 
breathed, but she was no manager. She had one invari- 
able custom when things got muddled or went wrong, and 
that was to sit down and cry. Jemima’s plan was exactly 
the reverse. She tried her best to keep things from going 
wrong, but it they did, as they will do occasionally, even 
in the best regulated families, then she would stand up 
and laugh and bustle about, and get them right again as 
quickly as possible. 

After Jemima had been with the Pargeters some two or 


DRAMAS OF LIFE . 


236 

three years they felt that she was one of the family. She 
knew all Mr. Pargeter’s little ways — it was she who got 
him off in the morning ; it was she who made him welcome 
when he came home at night. It was she who cheered 
the drooping spirits of Mrs. Pargeter when the little clouds 
gathered on the horizon of domestic management coupled 
with apartment letting, and it was she who tenderly nursed 
and cossetted little Susan through all her childish ailments, 
and won her heart and became her loving, sympathetic, 
and devoted “Jim.” 

It was the child who first called Jemima “Jim.” It was 
“Tzim” when she was five and lisped -a little; it was 
“Jim” as she grew up. Jemima had told her little mis- 
tress one day that her brother who died used to call her 
“Jim,” and it took the child’s fancy, and ever afterwards 
she called her dear kind nurse “Jim,” too. 

It was “ Jim ” who took little Susan Pargeter to the day 
school ; it was “ Jim^’ who fetched her home, and it was 
always “Jim” who heard her say her prayers and sat and 
talked to her till the little eyes closed and the little head 
sank down in sleep upon the pillow. 

And oh ! the wonderful stories Jim would tell Susan — 
stories that made her big brown eyes open wide with awe 
and astonishment. But the story that interested little 
Susan most was the story of Jim’s sister. 

Jemima’s sister lived far away in a very hot country, 
where the people were all black. I am giving you 
Jemima’s story as she told it herself. She was married 
to a very rich dark gentleman in that hot country, and 
had hundreds of servants and a palace and jewels, and 
her name was Mrs. God Save the Queen Jamsetjeebhoy. 
Where she lived there were tigers and elephants and ser- 
pents, and her husband worshipped the Fire. 

The little girl thought this quite as wonderful as a fairy 
tale, and she told her father and mother about it. 

When Mr. Pargeter first heard the child’s tale, he thought 


DRAMAS OR LIRE . 


237 

it was some nonsense Jim had been telling her, but when 
little Susan turned to Jim and said, “It is true, Jim, dear, 
isn't it, about your sister’s name being God Save the 
Queen and having a palace?” and Jim said “Yes, quite 
true.” Mr. Pargeter was very much astonished, and asked 
Jim to kindly explain. 

The explanation was simple enough, though it was 
quite a romance. 

Jim Crowe’s sister, who was two years older than Jim, 
was a very beautiful girl, and had been taken out to India 
when she was a little girl by a rich lady who was over 
here, for her to bring up her children. Jim’s sister had 
been engaged as under-nurse while the lady was in 
England, and had so ingratiated herself with the children 
that they didn’t want her to leave them, and so when the 
lady went back to India, and to her husband, who was a 
Government official in Bombay, little Annie Crowe was 
persuaded to go with them. She never came back again, 
but when the children grew up, and her services were no 
longer required, she became half-companion, half-maid 
to the lady. Her beauty attracted the attention of a rich 
Parsee merchant, who visited the family. He had one of 
those odd names which the Parsees, in latter times, have 
bestowed on their children. Some are called Ready 
Money, some Loyalty, some Liberty, etc., but Annie 
Crowe’s admirer had an extra loyal front name, and it 
was God Save the Queen. 

When he one day proposed to the pretty English girl, 
she was so confused and taken aback she didn’t know 
what to say, but having neither father nor mother, and 
only a sister in England, she went to her best friend, her 
mistress, and told her all about it. 

Annie’s mistress was a woman of the world. She knew 
that the Parsee merchant was an honorable and a highly 
respected' gentleman, and she felt that it was too good a 
chance in life for Annie to pass over, so she advised the 


Dramas of life. 


238 

girl to let Mr. Jamsetjeebhoy pay his addresses, and then 
she would see if she could ever love him as a husband. 

Six months afterwards they were married, and Jim 
assured her master that her sister had written to her since 
and told her they were very happy. They had been 
married six years when Jim came to the Pargeters, and 
Jim had two nieces and a nephew whom she had never 
seen. 

“And so you are sister-in-law to Mr. God Save the 
Queen Jamsetjeebhoy, a merchant prince, and your sister 
has hundreds of servants, and lives in a palace, and you 
are a general servant in a little house in Holloway. It's 
odd, Jim, very odd ! ” exclaimed Mr. Pargeter, as soon as 
he had thoroughly digested the story. 

“It is odd, sir, and it used to seem odd to me at first, 
replied Jim, “but I’ve got used to it now. You see I 
was only twelve and Annie fourteen when she went 
away, and we've never seen each other since we’ve grown 
up, so perhaps it isn’t so wonderful as it otherwise would 
be for us to be in such different positions.” 

“But hasn’t your sister done anything for you?” 
chimed in Mrs. Pargeter. 

“Lor, mum,” said Jemima, “why should she? I’ve 
never wanted for anything. I’ve got money in the 
Savings Bank, and I’ve never been out of place but one 
week in ten years. After she was married she wrote to 
me and said would I come out, or could she send me 
anything. I wouldn’t go out, of course. I should feel odd 
in a palace, and sitting down to table with the quality, 
and being the missus’s sister I couldn’t well stop in the 
kitchen. As to her sending me anything, I’m independent, 
thank God, and I didn’t want my sister to send me any 
of her husband’s money. I’m very happy as I am, and 
as long as I’m happy I don’t envy the Queen on her 
throne.” 

“ I suppose you’ve heard from your sister since,” said 
Mr. Pargeter. 


DRAMAS OF LIFE. 


n 9 

“ Oh yes, sir. She always writes to me after every 
baby. When I get a letter I know there’s another. You 
see so long as she’s all right we haven’t much to say to 
each other, for I don’t suppose we should recognize each 
other if we met. ” 

That night when the Pargeters were retiring to rest Mrs. 
Pargeter broached the subject of Jemima Crowe’s sister. 

“ Fancy, my dear," she said to the husband, “ our Jim 
being related to the nobility like that ; why it’s quite like 
one of those stories I used to read in the ‘ London Journal ’ 
when I was a girl.” 

“Strange things happen in life every day, Susan," 
replied Mr. Pargeter. I hope no rich Indian will ever come 
along and take a fancy to our Jemima, and take her off 
and make her Mrs. Cheer Boys Cheer Bobrawala, or Mrs. 
Pop Goes the Weasel Chowchow Chunder Sen, or any- 
thing of that sort." 

“Oh, Sam, how can you make a joke of such a thing ? ’’ 
exclaimed Susan Pargeter, the tears almost coming into 
her eyes. “ I hope Jemima will never marry — whatever 
should we do without her." 


Five years after Jim had revealed to her master and mis- 
tress the fact that her only sister was the wife of a wealthy 
Parsee in India, a great change took place in the fortunes 
of the Pargeters. Sam Pargeter was laid up with a severe 
attack of rheumatic fever, and was compelled to resign his 
employment. This, coupled with the fact that the drawing- 
room floor had left in debt, and that the apartments had 
been for some time vacant, brought the unhappy family 
who had come to London because “ it was paved with 
gold " to the verge of very bad times, and the verge was 
passed, when some time later Mr. Pargeter, having been 
unable to meet a loan which he had contracted on a bill 
of sale in a fit of desperation, the broker’s man came on a 


240 


DRAMAS OF LIFE. 


visit to the Pargeters, and only left at the same time as 
the furniture. 

The Pargeters were ruined — ruined as hundreds of 
people are every day in this great London. All their 
cherished household goods were swept away, and poor 
little Susan, now ten years old, came home from school 
one day to find her mother weeping in an empty room, 
and Jim, the tears flowing down her honest cheeks, vainly 
endeavoring to make Mr. Pargeter accept the sum of 
ten pounds w r hich she had drawn out of the Savings 
Bank, “only till you can pay me back, sir, only till you 
can pay me back.” 

Little Susan knew what had happened. She had heard 
her parents talk before now of the impending blow. 
“Oh, mother, mother!” she moaned, “ have they taken 
all our beautiful things ? ” 

In a moment Jim’s arms were round the little girl’s 
neck, and Susan buried her face and sobbed her heart out 
on Jim’s heaving bosom. 

“Oh, my lamb, my little lamb !” wailed Jim. “ I’ve got 
to leave you, I’ve got to leave you, and it breaks my heart 
to do it.” 

This was the crowning blow. Mr. Pargeter, who was, 
though weak, just able to get about again, had deter- 
mined to face his trouble. He would get employment 
again soon, he hoped, but it would take years to build a 
home up again. They would have to go into three rooms 
— three cheap rooms for a while, and they would not be 
able to keep a servant. 

Poor Jim vowed that if they would only let her stay she 
would work for nothing, and she would have done it 
gladly ; but even Jim, kind-hearted and self-sacrificing as 
she was, would have to eat and drink, and Mr. Pargeter 
knew that he would have all his remaining energy taxed 
to find food for his wife and child. 

Besides, he was too honorable to allow Jim to sacrifice 

» 


DRAMAS OF LIFE . 


241 

herself. She was a good servant. There were plenty of 
people who would be glad to have her, and she had her 
own way to make in the world. 

And so there came at last a painful parting. The last 
good-bye was said. Jim bore up bravely till she was at 
the door and her boxes on the top of the four-wheeler, and 
then as she caught her little mistress to her heart for the 
last time she broke down, and went red-eyed and sobbing 
into the cab. 

And as she drove away and leaned her head out and 
waved her handkerchief, so that they might see her to the 
very last, the tears were in the eyes of husband and wife, 
who were losing a faithful friend, and little Susan, broken- 
hearted, crept up to an empty room and went down on 
her knees, and, burying her head in her hands, cried over 
the first great loss of her life — the loss of her dear, loving, 
motherly “Jim/' 

Before she had left, Jim had put a letter in little Susan's 
pocket. 4 ‘Don’t you open that till after I’m gone, dear,” 
she said, and Susan had promised. In her grief she for- 
got all about the letter till she went to bed. Then she 
found it in her pocket. It was the ten pound note which 
Mr. Pargeter had refused — nearly all the savings of Jim's 
lifetime. 

And Jim had written on a sheet of paper, “ If your papa 
sends it back, it will break my heart. Let me think I 
helped the dearest, kindest friends I ever had. Write to 
me sometimes, my lamb. A letter to my cousin, Mrs. 
Marsh, at Middleton, will be taken care of, and sent tome 
wherever I am, dear. God bless you. Your humble 
friend and servant, Jim.” 

Years of struggle — years of heart-breaking rebuffs at 
fortune’s cruel hands — years of bitterness and humiliation 
passed over the heads of the Pargeters. Mr. Pargeter got 
better, obtained another situation, fell ill again and lost it. 

16 


242 


DRAMAS OF LIFE. 


Mrs. Pargeter, unable to bear trouble, fell into a shiftless, 
desponding state, and let things drift. The guardian 
spirit of the humble little home was Susan. 

The child had grown into a sweet and gentle girl, and 
had taken the burthen of the home upon her young 
shoulders. She was bright, intelligent, patient and gentle, 
and she had the cleverest and deftest little fingers in the 
world. Those clever fingers were the family’s salvation. 

Susan had a natural aptitude for making dresses and 
bonnets and hats, and could do all manner of clever 
things with a pair of scissors and a needle, and at the 
age of seventeen she was able to go out and work at 
ladies’ houses. She had an introduction to a customer 
first of all from a clergyman’s wife, and that went a long 
way in the suburbs, where the clergy are the nearest 
approach to the aristocracy. Then one lady recom- 
mended her to another, and she was so clever, so well- 
behaved, and so gentle, the ladies said, that many of them 
became her friends. 

Every day, in all winds and weathers, Susan Pargeter 
went to her work and returned at night, and then there was 
plenty for her to do at home. It was a hard working 
sunless life, but the girl was amply repaid by the intense 
love her father bore her, and in the knowledge that she 
was keeping a roof over her parents’ heads and at least 
saving them from the worst side of poverty — the poverty 
that brings cold and hunger in its train. 

Poor Mrs. Pargeter muddled on. She was still a good 
cook, but that was very little use when there was very 
little to be cooked. She was a good wife and nursed 
her husband, she was a good mother and loved her 
daughter, but she had not the first principle of house- 
hold management, and she was always in a muddle. 
She muddled so effectually that in spite of her daughter’s 
earning and a little she was able to make herself by 
needlework and a small sum which Mr. Pargeter obtained 


DRAMAS OF LIFE . 


H 3 

by balancing little local shopkeepers’ books at home, 
they were never ahead of the world. 

Since Jim left them they had had to move three times. 
After the first move they had heard nothing of her. She 
had written to say she had obtained another place and 
Susan had written to her. When they moved Susan had 
written to the address at Middleton, but the letter had 
come back. Jim’s cousin was dead and strangers were 
in her cottage. In this way the correspondence was 
broken, and Jim grew to be but a pleasant memory of 
the past in the days when things were better with the 
Pargeters than they were now. 

There are families which seem predestined to misfor- 
tune — or rather which once having fallen upon evil times 
seem unable to retrieve their ill-luck, and breast one 
wave towards the shore only to be hurled back into deep 
water by another. So it was with the Pargeters. In 
spite of the daughter’s heroic efforts and her father’s 
brave endeavors to struggle against ill-health, they found 
themselves once more face to face with disaster. Coming 
home one stormy night from her work, and walking to 
save the bus fare, Susan caught a terrible cold. It turned 
to rheumatic fever, and for weeks she lay ill. The bread- 
winner could win no bread, and then the unhappy father 
and mother had to pawn what few things they had left 
from the wreck to pay their rent and meet the doctor’s 
bill. 

The poor little London dressmaker, lying weak and 
helpless, had to endure the torture of knowing that her 
illness was ruin to her dear ones. The worry and anxiety 
retarded her recovery. It was ruin that was staring the 
unfortunate family in the face. In desperate straits Mrs. 
Pargeter went down to her native place, and succeeded 
in borrowing a little money from an acquaintance of her 
girlhood. But it was a loan and would have to be repaid. 
It was only a fresh burden of debt. 


244 


DRAMAS OF LIFE. 


Still it saved them for the time being — that is to say, it 
prevented them from being turned into the street. 

Directly she was convalescent, long before she was 
well and strong enough to work, Susan Pargeter made a 
desperate effort to take up the battle of life again. But 
the trial was unsuccessful. The lady to whose house she 
went saw that she was ill, and told her kindly to go home 
again as quickly as possible. 

Susan went out with a heavy heart, but it was a beauti- 
ful spring day and the soft air and bright sunshine revived 
her. 

The house to which she had gone to work was at Bays- 
water. She walked along slowly until she got to the 
Marble Arch, then she went into the Park and sat down 
on one of the seats to rest — to rest her weak little body, 
but, alas ! not her mind. 

She was going back to a home where money was so 
badly needed with the knowledge that it would be perhaps 
some weeks yet before she would be able to do anything 
for herself or her father and mother. 

And sitting there absorbed in melancholy thought, the 
young girl’s mind wandered back to the days of her 
childhood, back to the days when the home was so 
bright and happy, and when Jim— dear old Jim — Was 
with them to share her childish joys, to comfort her in 
her childish sorrows. 

With a deep sigh she rose to resume her journey 
towards home. Something — perhaps the fresh, strong 
air, perhaps the exertion of the walk — had made her feel 
slightly giddy. She got as far as the Marble Arch and 
was crossing towards Edgeware Road when she felt her 
head begin to swim, and her limbs gave way under her. 

A wild cry just reached her ears as she staggered and 
fell, almost under the feet of a pair of spirited horses 
attached to an elegant landau. 

The coachman just managed to pull up, but one of the 


DRAMAS OF LIFE. 


245 

horses struck the girl on the head with his hoof, causing 
the blood to flow. The crowd rushed round, and a lady 
who was in the landau got out and insisted upon the poor 
girl being placed in the carriage. 

“ I will take her to a doctor at once,” she said, and the 
girl was lifted senseless into the carriage. 

For twenty-four hours Susan Pargeter was only partially 
conscious. She only knew that she was somewhere, 
and that people were gently moving round her. 

When at last she came to herself, a dim remembrance 
of all that occurred slowly formed itself in her brain. 

She opened her eyes and saw a white-haired old gen- 
tleman by her bedside. 

“That’s right,” he said, looking at her over the rims of 
his gold spectacles. “ How do you feel now, my dear ? ” 

“I — I don’t know,” murmured the girl, still hardly 
realizing the situation. Then she added softly, “who 
are you, sir ? ” 

“I’m the doctor, my dear. You’ve had a little accident, 
and you’ve been brought here, but you’ll soon be all 
right. You’ll soon be all right.” 

“ Yes,” said the girl, “I remember now. I must have 
fainted, but,” looking round the room, “I — I — where am 
I — where have they brought me to ? ” 

“To the house of the lady whose horses were so nearly 
over you, my dear. The kind creature insists on keep- 
ing you till you are well, and we’re going to make a 
thorough cure, I can tell you. There now, don’t talk 
any more to me. I’ll send the lady to you.” 

“Who is the lady, sir? ” 

“Well, my dear, it’s an odd name to mention to an in- 
valid. Perhaps with that name in your head you’ll think 
you’re dreaming still, but her name is Mrs. God Save the 
Queen Jamsetjeebhoy.” 

“What?” cried the girl, trying to sit up in bed, but 


246 


DRAMAS OF LIFE . 


falling- back upon the pillow. “Why that’s Jim Crowe’s 
sister.” 

“ H’m ! ” said the doctor to himself, “still wandering a^ 
little evidently. Jim Crowe’s sister. What an odd idea. 
I’ll fetch the lady to her at once, and come in again in 
the evening, and see if she’s a little more rational.” 

And the doctor went softly out of the room, and down 
the stairs, to tell Mrs. God Save the Queen Jamsetjeebhoy 
that the patient had spoken, and she might see her for a 
few minutes. 

And when Susan Pargeter opened her eyes again she 
uttered a wild little cry, and put her weak arms up, and 
flung them round the neck of the lady who stood beside 
her, crying “Jim, dear Jim!” and then for a moment 
there was nothing heard but the sobs of two loving 
women, united after long years of parting. 

It was Jim Crowe herself who was standing by the 
bedside of the little London dressmaker, who had been 
nearly run over in the streets. 

At first Susan thought that it must be all a dream, 
that it was one of those strange visions that used to come 
to her sometimes when she lay ill with the fever. But 
she opened her eyes again, and there was Jim’s face 
still pressed close to hers. 

“ Oh, Jim, dear, what does it all mean — what does it all 
mean ? ” 

“ Hush, dear, the doctor says you aren’t to talk yet, 
but to be kept perfectly quiet. When you are a little 
stronger I will tell you all about it.” 

Suddenly Susan remembered that she was not at home. 

“ Jim,” she cried, “how long have I been here? Poor 
father and mother, what will they think ? Oh, let someone 
go to them at once and tell them where I am. ” 

“ It’s all done long ago, dear, ” answered Jim. “ We 
found a letter in your pocket, and we took the address 
from the envelope, and sent at once, Your mother has 


DRAMAS OF LIFE. 


247 


been here and is coming again. She has only gone 
home to tell your father you are all right, and to ease 
his mind.” 

“ Oh Jim, it seems so wonderful to see you. I thought 
we should never meet again.” 

“ Hush, dear ; lie still for a little while. I’m going to 
be your nurse, and nurses mustn’t let their patients talk 
too much till they are strong, you know.” 

Jim moved across the room and rang the bell. An 
Indian woman came softly into the room, and Jim gave 
her some whispered instructions. Then she returned, and 
sitting by the bedside, took the little wasted hand of her 
patient in hers and held it gently. 

“ Jim, ” said the girl, “ do you remember the song you 
used to sing to me when I was a tiny girl, and you 
wanted me to go to sleep ? Sing it to me now, Jim ; sing 
it to me now. ” 

Jim looked at the white pained face that lay upon the 
pillow, and the tears came into her eyes and into her 
throat. She read the story of years of suffering and sorrow 
easily enough. It was written in the work girl’s haggard 
face. 

For a moment her voice trembled and was husky; but 
gradually she conquered her emotion and sang the soft 
lullaby of old. 

It was years since she had sung it, but sitting once again 
by the little mistress that used to be, the old familiar 
words came back. The sick girl lay and listened with 
closed eyes, and a blessed, dreamy pleasure stole over 
her. All the years of sorrow floated away on the wings of 
the melody of the happy long ago. 

After singing softly Jim watched her lovingly until the 
heaving of her bosom became more regular, and the little 
work-girl fell into a gentle sleep. 

Then she rose, and leaning over, smoothed the brown 
hair back from the brow and pressed her lips softly upon 


248 


DRAMAS OF LIFE. 


the fevered forehead. “ Thank God, my lamb, my little 
Susan, I have found you again,” she said. “ Oh, what 
you must have suffered, what you must have suffered.” 

The Indian woman took Jim’s place for a little while 
that evening while Jim went downstairs to dinner. But 
she wasn’t Jim any more as she sat at the head of the 
table, and Indian servants went and came bowing low 
before her. 

There were four other people at the table. A very 
dark, handsome young fellow of about 18, with coal black 
eyes, and three beautiful girls about as dark as himself. 
Beautiful brunettes we would call them, but their darkness 
was inherited from their Parsee father. 

The servants treated Jim with stately deference — the 
children, as she called them, treated her with loving con- 
sideration. 

For Jim Crowe was Jim Crowe no longer. 

She was Mrs. God Save the Queen Jamsetjeebhoy, 
widow of a Parsee merchant prince, and the boys and 
girls were her nephew and nieces — the children of her 
dead sister Annie. 

It was not till Susan was strong and able to come 
downstairs that Jim told her story. 

She told it one day when a nice, cozy little five o’clock 
tea party was gathered together in the beautiful room 
that was Jim’s boudoir. 

The party consisted of Jim, Mr. Pargeter, Mrs. Pargeter 
and Susan — Susan lying on the sofa, for she was not quite 
strong yet, and the sofa was wheeled up to the fire, and 
Jim sat at the little table and poured out the tea, and Mr. 
and Mrs. Pargeter sat in two wonderful Indian easy chairs. 

No one else was admitted — not even “ the children,” 
as Jim still called them — because this was Susan’s first 
day downstairs, and it was to be celebrated by a little 
family gathering. 


DRAMAS OF LIFE . 


249 

“Just ourselves, dear,” said Jim, “just ourselves, 
dear, as we used to be, years ago, in the little house in 
Holloway. ” 

And so these old friends, parted so long, the master and 
mistress and the little mistress, and the faithful servant, 
met in the old familiar way. 

The room was no longer a little suburban parlor ; it 
was a beautifully furnished apartment in a West End 
mansion, and Jim was no longer a general servant in her 
afternoon stuff frock, but, Mrs. God Save the Queen 
Jamsetjeebhoy, charmingly dressed as becomes a lady of 
wealth and position at five o’clock in the afternoon. 

And Jim, though nothing would improve her kind 
heart and her sweet sympathetic nature, had benefited 
greatly by her altered position and different surroundings. 
She spoke in a more cultured way — her manners had 
acquired the polish of society, and the years she had been 
mistress of a large establishment had given her a certain 
dignity, which, as a general servant, she had naturally 
not cultivated. 

Poor Mrs. Pargeter, although she had been to the house 
every day to see her daughter, was not quite at her ease 
in it yet. Do what she would, she couldn’t accustom herself 
to the Indian servants, and she kept thinking of Jim’s old 
stories, and expecting to see the door open and admit a 
tiger, an elephant, or a serpent. 

Jim’s story, told to her deeply interested little audience, 
was a short and simple one. 

She had gone away heart-broken from them, to stay for 
a little while with some friends in her native village. 

But she pined and fretted, and felt the necessity of get- 
ting to work again. The work of a general servant in 
a London house doesn’t leave much time for brooding. 
If the family isn’t a large one there’s always plenty to 
be done. Every time a window is opened the air blows 
in a job for a tidy girl with a handy duster. 


250 


DRAMAS OF LIFE. 


Jim came up to London again and soon got another 
place — this time not as a general servant, but as a house- 
maid in a small family. She had not been there very 
long when a letter from India which her sister had sent 
to her cousin, Mrs. Marsh, which was a kind of “per- 
manent address ” for the wandering servant girl. 

“Another baby,” said Jim to herself as she opened the 
letter. ■ 

It was another baby ; but, alas, this time things had 
not gone well with Jim’s sister. Her baby had only sur- 
vived its birth a few hours, and she herself had been very 
ill. “ I’ve had a narrow escape, my dear sister,” wrote 
the Parsee merchant’s wife, “and I have a foreboding 
that I shall never be well again. For some time past I 
have had grave fears about my health. My husband, who 
is very kind, has tried to reassure me, but I don’t believe 
I shall ever be well again. My dear sister, we have 
not seen each other for years. Fate has willed it so, 
but I have always thought of you and hoped that some 
day we should be re-united. It may not be now perhaps, 
but, my dear, I want you to make me a promise. It will 
ease my mind so much if you will. 

“ I am not afraid to die, though I should like to live a 
little longer, but what is making me most unhappy is the 
idea of leaving my children in this country with no 
Englishwoman near them — there is no one who would 
love them or watch over them. My dear husband is very 
good, but you know what I mean, dear — he is a man 
and has his business to think of, and has to take long 
journeys and be much from home. 

“What I want you to promise me, dear sister, is that 
if I should die while my children are young that you will 
come out here and be with them, and love them for my 
sake. Do write me, dear, and say that you will. You 
cannot think how it would ease my mind — how it would 
save me many a sleepless night of anxiety, if you would 


DRAMAS OF LIFE . 


251 


only send me one little line saying ‘Yes/ I couldn’t bear 
to think of my little ones being left in this far off country 
to strangers, but I could die happy knowing that when I 
am gone you will be their guardian and friend, and 
replace the mother they have lost.” 

Jim laid the letter down with tears in her eyes. She, 
too, had hoped that one day she should see her sister 
again, but this letter robbed her of that hope. 

She knew, from her sister’s previous letters, that she 
was not the woman to make a trouble of a shadow, or to 
indulge in these gloomy forebodings without a cause. 
Something in the letter made her think that her sister knew 
that she was dying. 

She sat down and wrote a loving letter in reply. 

She gave her promise. Yes, if anything happened to 
her sister — which God forbid — she would come out, and 
the children should be to her a sacred trust for all her life. 

A month later Jim received a cable from India. Her 
sister was dead. A letter was to follow. 

In due time the letter came — it was from the bereaved 
husband. He wrote with deep feeling of his great loss, 
and he told poor Jim that her promise to her sister had 
been her greatest comfort in her last moments. 

Funds were forwarded for Jim’s outfit and passage, and 
she was assured that she would be heartily welcomed by 
her little nephew and nieces, who had been enjoined by 
their mother to think of her as one who would love them 
for their mother’s sake. 

The husband concluded by saying that it was with his 
entire approval and concurrence the arrangement had 
been made, and it would be the study of his life to make 
the task of his dead wife’s sister as pleasant a one as 
possible. 

Jim, on the eve of leaving England, endeavored to find 
out what had become of the Pargeters, that she might say 
good-bye to them, She went to the last address and 


DRAMAS OF LIFE. 


252 

found they had left. The people there could not tell her 
where they had gone. 

She went to Holloway and made enquiries among the 
tradespeople and among the neighbors. She thought it 
possible that some of them might have seen something of 
the Pargeters, and be able to give her news of them. But 
everywhere she failed. Since the day they left the neigh- 
borhood nothing had been seen of the former tenants of 
Sudbury Villa. 

And so she went out across the seas to the strange land 
she had told little Susan about, and found wealth and 
luxury awaiting her,- servants to obey her slightest wish, 
and herself transformed from a London housemaid into 
the female head of a Parsee widower s establishment. 

The children took to her directly — the poor little things 
had missed their mother terribly, and when their aunt 
came out they turned instinctively towards her. 

Her sweet, sympathetic nature soon strengthened the 
bonds between them, and she had not been in India a 
year before the children looked upon her as a second 
mother and gave her the full, fresh love of their young 
innocent hearts. 

And not only did she win the love of the children, but 
in time the widower began to say to himself that it would 
be a wise thing to make his sister-in-law’s position an 
assured and permanent one. 

He was a young man yet. He might want to marry 
again. It would be a cruel thing if he brought another 
woman into the household now — a cruel wrong to the 
children. A stranger would never be to them what their 
mother’s sister was. 

To them she was everything now. To have lost her 
would have been to them a grief almost as great as came 
to them -when their mother was taken from them. But 
Jim’s position in the home would have been intolerable 
had their father given them a stepmother to divide their 


DRAMAS OF LIFE:* 


253 

love and obedience with their aunt. All these things 
passed through the Parsee widower’s mind, and at the 
same time he acknowledged to himself that he had a 
strong personal regard and affection for Jim herself. 

When at last alter three years of widowhood, he told 
Jim one day what was in his mind, she received the 
intimation very quietly, and asked for time to think it 
over. 

She looked the situation fairly in the face. She, too, 

had had the dread that the widower might marry again 

perhaps a native wife, and she was filled with vague 
uneasiness as to what would be the lot of her sister’s chil- 
dren then. Her marriage with Mr. Jamsetjeebhoy would 
make no change in the household at any rate, nor would 
it wrong the little ones. 

She came to a decision after carefully weighing every 
consideration, and her decision was to accept the wid- 
ower’s offer. 

And so in due time she became his wife, and the chil- 
dren ceased to call her aunt, and called her mother ; and 
a better mother children never had. She never regretted 
the decision she had come to. She loved and respected 
her husband, and when he died from the result of an 
illness caught in Singapore, she mourned him sincerely. 

By his will she was left with a large fortune of her own, 
and the fortune bequeathed to the children was to be 
entirely in her hands and under her management until 
they came of age. Her power was absolute. Her hus- 
band, during their short married life, had learned that he 
could place the most perfect confidence in her. 

After settling certain business matters in connection 
with the estate, Mrs. Jamsetjeebhoy decided that it would 
be better for the children that they should pass a few years 
in Europe ; and so she came with them to England, and 
took a large house at the West End. 

As soon as they had recovered from the fatigue of the 


254 


. DRAMAS OF LIFE. 


journey and were settled in their new home, Jim thought 
of her old friends, the Pargeters, and determined to make 
one more effort to find out what had become of them. 

But before she could make any inquiries chance brought 
about the meeting. 

Her horses one day were pulled suddenly up amidst the 
cries of the bystanders. On looking to see what was the 
matter she saw a young girl lying in the roadway injured. 
She had her placed in her carriage at once, and on the 
way to the doctors was struck by the girl’s features. In 
searching the girl’s pockets to find some clue to her iden- 
tity in order that her friends might be communicated with, 
an envelope adressed to Miss Susan Pargeter was found. 

And then Jim knew that it was no accidental resem- 
blance, but that the poor London work-girl w T as her little 
mistress of long ago. 

She drove her at once to her own home, sent for her 
own doctor, and then sent off a servant with a message 
to Mrs. Pargeter. 

“And now you know all,” said Jim, as she concluded 
her strange story, “and how I became Mrs. God Save 
the Queen Jamsetjeebhoy, and how it comes about that 
we are all here together, snug and cozy and happy. 

The Pargeters' story the wealthy Indian widow only 
gathered by degrees. Mr. Pargeter, with pardonable 
pride, tried to conceal their terrible poverty from Jim. 
He knew his old servant’s generous disposition, and he 
feared to impose upon her. 

Mr. Pargeter’s pride had been his stumbling-block. It 
is quite possible that had he been a little more inclined to 
let his own friends know of his troubles he mi^ht have 
had a helping hand held out to him on former occasions, 
but he was one of those who suffer and are silent. 

Admirable dispositions are these — brave, noble, and 
much to be commended. Unfortunately, their silence 


DRAMAS OF LIFE. 


255 


under suffering does them no good, while the people 
(often very unworthy people) who cry out directly they 
are within measurable distance of trouble, attract all the 
sympathy. It is with sympathy as it is with charity. 
It is most frequently extended to those who least deserve it. 
Sam Pargeter was a favorable specimen of that genteel 
poverty which even when reduced to starvation endeavors 
to keep its hunger a secret, lest anyone should imagine 
it was asking to be invited to dinner. 

But Mrs. Pargeter had not the gift of reticence, and little 
by little she poured out her woes and the story of all the 
terrible trials and misfortunes the years which had brought 
wealth and position to Jim had brought to them. 

It made Jim very unhappy to hear it. It seemed to 
her so cruel that while she had had all that wealth could 
give her, her kind old master and mistress, and her gentle, 
delicate little mistress, had been enduring all the horrors 
and humiliations that are the lot of the poor in a great city. 

She thanked God that she had found them at last, and 
that it was in her power now to help the friends of her 
own friendless days. 

She was not long before she had matured a scheme 
which would restore them to comfort and peace of mind 
without in any way humiliating them. 

She was still Jim, the old servant, to them in one way, 
and she knew that Sam Pargeter was a proud man. 

But when she came to him in a plaintive little way and 
told him what terrible trouble she had with her business 
details and her accounts, and how sorely she needed the 
assistance of someone she could trust to go into figures 
for her, she had little difficulty in persuading Mr. Pargeter 
to undertake a duty to which she explained a handsome 
salary was attached. 

“I shall have to pay a stranger a much larger salary," 
she said, “ and I shall never feel comfortable with a 
stranger. I don’t like seeing strangers on business. 


DRAMAS OF LIFE. 


256 

You can’t think, Mr. Pargeter, what a weight it would be 
off my mind if you would only undertake it” 

Mr. Pargeter, when it was put in this way, saw no 
reason to refuse the offer, and he became a kind of 
secretary and accountant to Mrs. God Save the Queen 
Jamsetjeebhoy, at a salary of £500 a year, and the shadow 
was lifted from his life at last. 

And Susan, Jim’s little mistress. Ah, be sure that she 
was not forgotten. She was nursed back to health and 
strength with all a mother’s loving care, and the long 
walks in the cruel weather and the long days of weary 
work were things of the past. 

She and Jim spent happy days together, and the children 
grew to love her as 3. sister, and one of them grew to love 
her better than a sister in time, and that was the dark, 
handsome young gentleman. The dark, handsome young 
gentleman called Jim “mother,” as did all her sister’s 
children, and it was astonishing how much more he re- 
mained at home, and how little he cared for outdoor 
amusements when Miss Pargeter was his mother’s guest. 

And when Jim saw what was going to happen she was 
happier, she thought, than she had ever been in her life, 
for she knew that to her loving family another loving 
daughter would in time be added, and the old ties would 
grow stronger still. 

Susan Pargeter is Susan Pargeter no longer. To-day she 
is a happy wife, and lives in her own beautiful house not 
very far from Jim, and she is one of an affectionate family 
circle, and the black ox treads upon her little foot no more. 

She is happy in the love of her husband, happy, 
knowing that her dear father and mother will end their 
’days in comfort, happy in the knowledge that she is 
surrounded with loving, sympathetic friends, and certainly 
not one of the least happy hours is that in which she and 
Mrs. God save the Queen Jamsetjeebhoy sit together 


DRAMAS OF LIFE. 


257 


before the fire in Jim’s boudoir and talk of the old days 
when she was “little Susan,” and Mrs. God Save the Queen 
was her “dear old Jim,” and Mr. and Mrs. Pargeter 
used to allude playfully to the great lady out in India as 
“ Jim Crowe’s sister.” 


17 


THE FORTUNES OF THE 
FEATHERWEIGHTS. 


The Featherweight family came over with William the 
Conqueror, and are therefore gentle folks. All the people 
whose ancestors came over with the Conqueror are gentle 
folks, though gentleness was hardly one of the attributes of 
the invading Norman Duke’s mixed mob of mercenaries. 

The Featherweights are proud of their descent. Between 
the reign of William the First and that of Queen Victoria 
they had to do many strange things for a living, but they 
never forfeited their gentility. During the reign of Victoria 
some of them, so severe had the struggle for life become, 
had even to accept subordinate positions in the counting 
houses of London tradesmen, but they were still gentle 
folks. 

In the year 1882, the head of the family, so far as the 
word family represents a number of individuals, united 
by ties of blood, living under one roof, was Franklyn 
D’Arcy Featherweight, aged five-and-twenty, clerk in the 
counting house of Messrs. Malachi Brothers, of Holborn, 
tailors. The firm of Malachi Brothers was famous for its 
thirteen-and-sixpenny trousers (as advertised), and Mr. 
Franklyn D’Arcy (he was very particular about his D’Arcy) 
Featherweight made out the bills for the ready-money 
customers who honored the firm with their patronage. 

For this professional assistance to the renowned firm of 
retail clothiers he received the modest stipend of twenty 
shillings per week, a sum which was generally reduced 


DRAMAS OF LIFE . 


259 

by a shilling or two made up of sixpenny fines for being 
five minutes late in the morning. 

But even when he was making out bills for thirteen- 
and-sixpenny trousers— nay, even when, during a rush of 
business, he was compelled to show the trousers and 
expatiate upon their merits, the symmetry of the cut, 
and the chasteness of the pattern — Franklyn was still a 
gentleman. 

A gentleman is born,, not made, and Franklyn’s father 
was Captain Featherweight, and his mamma had been a 
Miss D’Arcy, therefore Franklyn received gentle blood in 
his veins from both the author and the authoress of his 
being. 

Franklyn attributed his present rather humble position 
in life to the fact of his father having deserted his mother 
and left her with the family on her hands, while he cruised 
about the Mediterranean in his own yacht, and attended 
the ambassadorial receptions of the principal capitals of 
Europe. 

The malignant tongue of slander, which does not even 
respect the descendants of the Thieves, pirates, adven- 
turers, and general scum of the Continent, which enlisted 
under the Norman Duke’s banner, hinted that Captain 
Featherweight was only an ex-captain of militia, and 
that, having run through a few thousands which he 
inherited from a distant relative, he became traveller to a 
continental firm of wine merchants, which accounted for 
his long absences in foreign parts, and the same tongue 
absolutely denied the existence of the yacht. 

The reason of the separation between husband and wife 
was faithfully recorded in the annals of the police courts. 
The separation was a judicial one, and arose from a habit 
the captain had (possibly inherited from a Norman 
ancestor) of blacking his wife’s eye, and using language 
to her which, in spite of his Norman origin, was unmis- 
takably Saxon. 


26 o 


DRAMAS OF LIFE . 


The children of the marriage — Franklyn, his brother 
Harold, and his sister Gladys — remained with the mother, 
and in various subsequent little encounters with their 
papa on family matters, always took her side. 

The Captain asserted that his quarrels with his wife 
were caused by her mismanagement of the household, 
her reckless extravagance, and her playful habit of con- 
tracting liabilities with milliners and drapers, which were 
never revealed to him until Her Majesty made the com- 
munication on a document commencing “Victoria, by the 
grace of God.” He declared that she had brought him to 
bankruptcy by her extravagance, and that she aggravated 
him to violence by her tongue. He also asserted that if 
there had occasionally been a fight it had always been a 
free one, for whenever he remonstrated with the mother 
his sons took up chairs and banged him over the head 
with them, while his daughter went down on her knees 
and bit his calves. 

If the Captain’s version was a correct one, it was easy 
to understand why he did not trouble his sons and 
daughter with many visits, or inquire too closely after 
their welfare. Sometimes, however, family matters re- 
quired that father and sons should meet, and on those 
occasions an appointment was generally made by the 
Captain at the corner of the street. Even the publicity of 
these interviews did not always prevent a fresh outbreak 
of hostilities, for during one conference Franklyn knocked 
his paternal progenitor backwards into a whelk stall, 
and during another, which must have been even more 
animated, the two brothers took their father by the legs 
and shoulders and flung him bodily over the palings of 
Regent’s Park after the gates were locked, and left him on 
his back yelling for the police. 

Under these circumstances it is not surprising that the 
Captain at last broke off all communications with his 
family, resolutely refused to make any addition to their 


DRAMAS OF LIFE . 2 6 1 

income, and forebore to furnish them with his address on 
the Continent. 

The brothers were both in employment. Harold, the 
second son, who was two and twenty, was a clerk in a 
solicitor’s office, and Gladys, who was a handsome girl 
of eighteen, gave music lessons to shopkeepers’ daughters 
at sixpence an hour, or as much more as she could get. 

Mrs. Featherweight, nee D’Arcy, was grande dame du 
bold des ongles, and so she did nothing except inspire con- 
fidence by the hauteur of her demeanor in the breasts of 
the confiding tradespeople whom she honored with the 
family patronage. 

The Featherweights never stayed very long in one neigh- 
borhood. They became too well known. Aristocratic 
families are always a little exclusive, and so when such 
plebeian folks as furniture dealers, bakers, butchers, gro- 
cers, and cheesemongers became too familiar and took 
to knocking loudly at the door, ringing violently at the 
bell, and leaving offensive messages with the servant, the 
Featherweights moved. It is only fair to say that they 
generally spared the feelings of their landlord in not in- 
forming him that he was about to lose such high-class 
tenants, and out of consideration for the neighbor’s feelings 
they also generally loaded their furniture on to a van and 
went off under cover of the darkness of the night. 

Sometimes there were little difficulties in the way. A 
vulgar landlord would fail to see the exquisite delicacy of 
these secrets flittings, and would suddenly arrive with a 
coarse and vulgar-looking man, who would get in at the 
front door and take possession of the Featherweights’goods 
and chattels for rent. 

Still the Featherweights, under all their varying 
fortunes, preserved that perfect composure which only 
comes of long descent. When one little home was broken 
up, they looked out for another in as opposite a direction 
as possible. 


262 


DRAMAS OF LIFE. 


To take a house and furnish it on the united earnings 
of the family was not an easy matter, for the earnings 
only amounted as a rule to about £2 10s. per week, and 
out of this the young gentlemen required their luncheons, 
their cigars, and their fares to the City. 

These are things that cannot be obtained on credit. 
In the matter of clothes they were all right. London is 
full of tailors, and if you can’t pay one you can easily 
order a suit off another, especially if you have distin- 
guished manners and your papa keeps his yacht, and is 
on the visiting list of ambassadors. 

Having found a house, the property of a widow lady, 
who didn’t employ agents, or solicitors, preferred, Mr. 
Frankly n would take it, giving as a reference his relative 
Harold Featherweight, Esq., of the firm of Tort, Travers, 
and Co., solicitors of Lincoln’s Inn, and Harold Feather- 
weight would write back upon the firm’s paper and say 
that he had known Mr. Franklyn Featherweight for many 
years, that he was a gentleman of high standing in the 
City, and a most desirable tenant, &c. 

The furnishing was the next difficulty, but though this 
took time it was generally accomplished at last. London 
tradespeople are very confiding, especially to people who 
haggle about price, and walk out of the shop and have to 
be brought back three or four times before they will give 
an order. This establishes confidence at once. When 
a young gentleman and an elderly lady of distinguished 
appearance keep on saying that they have only a limited 
sum to spend and that the prices are too high for them, 
and when they require a written estimate, and haggle for 
an hour about the amount of discount for cash on comple- 
tion of ike order , you hesitate to talk about references. 

And when you have delivered all the furniture and 
present your bill, and first one little extra thing is wanted 
and then another to complete the order , you send them 


DRAMAS OF LIFE. 263 

in your eager desire to complete the order and get your 
money. 

Of course there is trouble with tradespeople even when 
your arrangements are artistically carried out, but the 
County Court is slow and the process of recovering a debt 
is frequently as objectionable to the creditor as it is to 
the debtor. 

Get your house furnished and decorated and you are 
all right. You can make acquaintances, receive your 
company, and you have inspired confidence in the local 
tradespeople, who would always rather give credit to the 
occupants of nicely furnished houses than do business for 
ready money. 

But even in the most confiding neighborhood you some- 
times require ready money for emergencies, and one fine 
day after they had occupied Acacia Villa, South Hamp- 
stead, for about three months, the Featherweights found 
themselves in absolute need of Capital. 

They had made some very nice acquaintances, on the 
strength of pa’s yacht and their distinguished manners. 
They gradually became on visiting terms with some of 
the well-to-do families, and, as they accepted hospitality, 
they returned it. 

Franklyn and his brother went about among the young 
fellows, and got introduced to their sisters, and introduced 
them in turn to Gladys, who had now given up the music 
lessons and was understood to be coming into a couple 
of thousand a year when she was 21. “It was from my 
mother’s side she inherits it,” said Franklyn. “My 
mother was a D’Arcy, and the D’Arcys are a very 
wealthy family.” 

This statement was made to sundry people — among 
others to a young fellow, Tom Bannister, the only son 
of a wealthy widow lady residing in the neighborhood. 

Tom was very much struck with Miss Gladys before 
he heard of her £2,000 a year. The brothers, who had 


264 


DRAMAS OF LIFE . 


ascertained what his prospects were, took him home 
with them as often as they could, and were constantly 
leaving him alone with their pretty sister. 

Now Mrs. Bannister was a shrewd old lady with eagle 
eyes behind her golden spectacles, and although she was 
a devout chapel-goer and subscribed liberally to missions 
to cannibals and other heathens she was naturally of a 
distrustful and suspicious disposition. 

What she had seen of the Featherweights did not inspire 
her with confidence, and when she found her son was 
constantly in their society she gave him a broad hint that 
she didn’t believe in them, and warned him against 
them. 

Tom protested hotly that his mother was mistaken, 
but the words caused him serious alarm, as they came 
somewhat too late. 

Led away by his romantic feelings, he had entered 
into a secret engagement with Miss Gladys, and had 
written her letters of a most affectionate description when 
she was ill. 

These letters were conveyed by Franklyn, who was in 
the secret — no one else was to know it. Mrs. Feather- 
weight had great ideas for her daughter, it was intimated, 
and Gladys, acting on her brother’s advice, urged her 
lover on no account to let her mother know yet. 

Tom thought it was delightful. The mystery, the dan- 
ger of discovery, the letters smuggled into the house to 
his beloved, all gave a romantic spice to the affair, and 
lifted it out of the ordinary category of courtship. 

It is quite possible the marriage might actually have 
taken place had not the family been in a hurry for ready 
money. It is fair to Franklyn and his brother to say 
that before they proceeded to turn their sister’s sweet- 
heart into the cash, they invited her to state her feelings 
candidly. Thus invited, the young lady confessed that 
she did not particularly care for Tom, and she agreed 


DRAMAS OF LIFE. 


265 

with the family committee, which was held on the sub- 
ject, that as soon as he discovered he had been deceived 
as to their position and her prospects, he was very likely 
to back out of it, and then a breach of promise case might 
seriously hamper their future operations upon society. 

A bird in the hand was worth two in the bush, and 
ready money was imperatively necessary unless the Feath- 
erweights were to do another moonlight flit, and sacri- 
fice the headway they had made in the neighborhood. 

Directly the family were agreed, the modus operandi 
was simplicity itself. Gladys one day, with tears in her 
eyes, informed her lover that her mamma had found the 
correspondence and confiscated it, and that she was being 
treated so badly that she intended to run away. 

Hardly had the young man recovered the shock of this 
statement, before Franklyn took him by the arm one 
evening and asked him to lend him £50, and the day 
after Mr. Bannister received an anonymous letter begging 
him to beware of the Featherweights, as they were head- 
over-ears in debt, that they never paid their trades- 
people, and that they were little better than swindlers. 
This letter was perhaps the most sublime effort of the 
Featherweight genius. It was almost unprecedented in 
its daring, for it was written by young Featherweight 
himself. 

It had the effect that had been calculated upon. Young 
Bannister destroyed the letter lest his mother should get 
hold of it, and then sent a timid note to Miss Gladys 
informing her that, as things had turned out, and her mam- 
ma was so furious he felt that it would be wicked of him 
to bring further trouble upon her, and he resigned her 
hand and hoped she would be happy. 

The receipt of the letter was acknowledged by the 
Brothers Featherweight in person. They called upon 
Mr. Bannister and requested a few minutes’ private con- 
versation with him. They then informed him that he 


266 


DRAMAS OF LIFE . 


was a blackguard — that he had trifled with their sister’s 
affections and severely compromised her, and, unless he 
fulfilled his promise, they would give him a sound thrash- 
ing first and commence an action for breach of promise 
against him afterwards. 

Young Bannister turned pale and red by turns, shiv- 
ered, perspired, stammered, and endeavored to justify 
himself. He was, however, too frightened of the bro- 
thers, who assumed the most threatening attitude, to hint 
at the information he had received in the anonymous 
letter. 

Eventually, the Messrs. Featherweight, fearing they had 
frightened Mr. Bannister too much, and that he would 
offer to marry Gladys there and then to save his life, hinted 
that it was not their desire to force any man into their 
honorable family who did not wish to enter it, and they 
said that as the matter had obtained no publicity they 
would induce their mother to compromise it. 

They hinted at a thousand pounds, but Mr. Bannister 
declared that while his mother lived it was impossible that 
he could obtain so much money. Eventually, they agreed 
to return him all his letters and allow the engagement to 
be cancelled for five hundred pounds, and this Mr. Ban- 
nister managed at last to obtain on the strength of his ex- 
pectations at his mothers death by paying “a gentlemen 
in the city ” an extravagant annual interest for the advance. 

Out of the £500 the Featherweights paid away about 
£100 in settlement of pressing claims, and they honorably 
placed the other £400 to a joint account to provide the 
sinews of war for further family operations. 

Soon afterwards they moved into another neighborhood, 
thinking it advisable, as some of the local tradespeople 
had already begun to talk of the difficulty they had to get 
their money, and this is the sort of gossip servants carry 
from house to house. 


DRAMAS OF LIFE . 267 

With £400 ready money at their command they natu- 
rally felt that they should be above suspicion. 

That £400 was the stepping stone to better things. 
They had little difficulties for a time. Some of their old 
creditors turned up at their new house, and Franklyn very 
nearly killed a too-importunate butcher by throwing him 
down the front steps into the road just as a Pickford’s van 
was passing. The Captain, too, created a little unpleas- 
antness by turning up in the middle of a small and early, 
in a state slightly removed from sobriety, and having 
three rounds with his eldest son, and an interchange of 
civilities with his wife before he could be got sufficiently 
near to the front window to be thrown out into the area 
below. 

But these were trifling drawbacks to the improved state 
of affairs. Franklyn, who was really a clever fellow, had 
got a berth in the City which was worth £200 a year. 

Harold had accidentally discovered a little matter which 
his employers were desirous should not be known to any- 
one, and this secured him also a considerable increase of 
salary, and Gladys— sweet little Gladys— had succeeded 
in captivating another heart, this time that of a young 
fellow of property, who was weak on the lungs and 
addicted to brandy. This time there was no need to real- 
ize at a sacrifice, and so the wedding took place, and two 
years afterwards Gladys was a young and lovely widow, 
with a beautiful place in the country and £10,000 a year 
to keep it up with. 

The Featherweights were always a united family. 
Gladys having done so well for herself, thought of her 
kindred. She had her dear mamma to live with her, and 
her brothers were always welcome. 

They did not talk about the Captain now, or his yacht, 
or his acquaintance with ambassadors. They allowed 
him — that is to say, Gladys did — £100 a year to keep out 
of the way. The brothers now found it more to their 


268 


DRAMAS OF FIFE. 


advantage to play a trump card in “My sister, Mrs. Kit- 
son, of Kitson Hall/’ 

Kitson Hall was open house to them. Frank Kitson, 
the proprietor of the Hall and their sister, was an invalid 
after the first year, and only wanted Gladys to come and 
sit with him now and then in between the bottles of brandy. 
The Featherweight family did all the honors and invited 
their own friends. They rode his horses, used his car- 
riages, bullied his servants, and eventually took up their 
residence there, “in order to look after things for their 
sister. ” 

After Frank Kitson died they were not at the Hall so 
much. The brothers had got oivt of it nearly all they 
wanted. Franklyn married a young lady he met there, 
who, it is needless to say, had plenty of money ; and 
Harold, having carefully treasured his employers’ secret, 
and at the same time studied hard, was admitted to a 
partnership in the firm on the day he became a full-fledged 
solicitor. He had no need to make Kitson Hall his hunt- 
ing-ground for a wife, as he married his senior partner’s 
daughter. The old man gave his consent all the more 
readily, as he felt that there are some secrets which are 
best kept in the family. 

The Featherweights are now rich and prosperous (with 
the exception of the Captain who has been through the 
Bankruptcy Court, and is still allowed a small sum 
annually to remain cruising around the Embassies of 
Europe in his yacht), and nothing annoys them so much 
as for anyone to suppose that they are the same Feather- 
weights who once lived on their wits in certain suburban 
neighborhoods. 

They will tell you, if you refer to the subject, that there 
were, they believe, some people of that name who brou ght 
disgrace upon it, but they are absolutely in no way related 
to their branch of the family. The most annoying thing 
that ever happened to Franklyn D’Arcy Featherweight, 


DRAMAS OF LIFE. 


269 

Esq., now J.P., was when an elderly gentleman named 
Malachi, who retired on a fortune made out of cheap 
trousers, met him at a ball at the Mansion House, and 
was under the absurd impression that he recognized in 
the J.P. a former clerk of his. 

I have given but a short sketch of the fortunes of the 
Featherweights, because life is short and space is limited, 
but there is in their family history sufficient material for 
a three-volume novel. Short as the sketch is, it ought, I 
feel convinced, to conclude with a moral, but, though I 
have given the subject the most anxious thought, I cannot 
for the life of me find one. 

Perhaps as an apology for a moral I may draw atten- 
tion to the fact that, amid all their plotting, planning, 
scheming, and trickery, they never once forgot that they 
were gentle people. Even when they borrowed a few 
shillings from their new servant, and when they dismissed 
her for giving them notice, and stopped the whole of the 
wages due to her for breakages, they remembered that 
their mother was a D’Arcy, and that their ancestors on the 
male side came over with the Conqueror. 

Perhaps had they been more humble, and paid their way 
and scorned to tell an untruth they would still have been 
as hard up as they were when I first commenced the story 
of their * ‘ Fortunes. ” 

But pray don’t accept this as the moral of their story, or 
I shall have the West End Tradesmen’s Protection Asso- 
ciation demanding my instant execution. 

If you fancy that the Fortunes of the Featherweights is 
an overcolored picture of a certain phase of modern life, 
it is to the aforesaid society I would humbly refer you. 
Their archives contain hundreds of Family Histories 

which put mine utterly in the shade. 

a?*- 


THE LAST LETTER. 


“Good-night, Jack, old fellow, God bless you! When 
shall I see you again ? ” 

“Soon, Will, I hope; you’re the only friend I have to 
tell my troubles to.” 

“Poor old Jack, you can’t think how sorry I am for 
you. What a wretched day it was for you when that 
woman came across your path.” 

“Aye, Will, it was. I sometimes think that it will end 
in a tragedy. She maddens me beyond all endurance.” 

“Hush, hush, old fellow, you mustn’t talk like that. 
Why, I shall be uneasy about that revolver, now.” 

“Oh, it’s only my wild way of talking. I’m not likely 
to murder her — she isn’t worth it. Good-night, we must 
meet again soon, for I shall want your advice. I expect 
it will come to a separation.” 

The two friends, Jack Hallewell and Will Darlington, 
parted. They were both young men, Hallewell was about 
thirty-three, and Darlington two and thirty. Darlington 
had just purchased a revolver for his friend, being in the 
business, and had handed it to him with many instructions 
not to leave it about. Jack Hallewell explained that his 
neighbors had been visited by burglars, and that he had 
made up his mind to have a weapon, in case he should 
be similarly favored. 

That meeting was destined to be an eventful one. Jack 
Hallewell went home to his wife, and before the week 
was out she was a dead woman, and he was in custody 


DRAMAS OF LIFE. 


2>Jl 

charged with having shot her with the very revolver his 
friend had purchased for him. 

Jack Hallewell, five years previously, had made an un- 
fortunate marriage. A young builder, in a good way of 
business, he had met a young lady who was bookkeeper 
at the hotel in the country at which he stopped while 
superintending the rebuilding of a gentleman’s mansion 
in the neighborhood. 

Julia Travers was a young woman of good education 
and handsome appearance. Tall, elegant, lady-like, and 
with charming manners, she had many admirers, but 
when young Hallewell came upon the scene and allowed 
her to see that he had fallen desperately in love with her, 
she sent them all to the right about, and devoted herself 
solely to his capture. 

He had no father and mother to consult, no. one to 
advise him except his bosom friend, Will Darlington ; and 
a man does not consult a male friend generally in affairs 
of the heart. 

And so it came about that Jack Hallewell married the 
handsome bookkeeper, and took her home to a newly- 
furnished villa at Stoke Newington, as his wife. 

It was not very long before he discovered that in the 
great marriage lottery he had not drawn a prize. Julia 
Hallewell was vain and heartless — she knew that her 
husband was a successful tradesman, and making money, 
and that was all she wanted. She speedily allowed him 
to discover that her idea of wifehood had nothing to do 
with loving companionship and gentle sympathy. 

Hallewell was deeply sensitive ; and, like all sensitive 
men, very quick-tempered. The result was that fierce 
quarrels soon arose between the ill-assorted couple, and 
they lived a life of almost open hostility. 

J ulia was too clever to leave her rich husband, or to do any- 
thing which would justify a separation. But in spite of her 
carefulness, Jack soon began to have an idea that she was 


272 


DRAMAS OF LIFE. 


cold and cruel to him, because she loved someone else. 
He found out that at the time he met her she was receiving 
a good deal of attention from a young fellow in the neigh- 
borhood, who used the hotel — a Mr. Richard Trewavas. 

Richard Trewavas was a handsome young countryman 
of five-and-twenty, and it was common gossip that he and 
the pretty bookkeeper were “ walking out together,” and 
were likely to make a match of it, always supposing that 
courtship was, as the French say, “ pour le bon motif. ’’ 
But Richard Trewavas was thrown over with the rest for 
Jack Hallewell, and it was only some six months after 
his marriage that Jack found out that Trewavas had been 
Julia Travers’s accredited lover. 

This discovery did not tend to improve matters, and the 
pangs of jealousy were added to the many tortures which 
the young husband endured in consequence of his wife’s 
unsatisfactory conduct. 

The only confidant of his troubles was his old friend, 
Will Darlington. Will always advised him to bear his 
wrongs patiently, and to endeavor to win his wife’s love 
by gentleness and forbearance. He did try, but it was all 
in vain. Julia declared that she had married in haste, 
and that she was quite as unhappy as her husband. She 
accused him of being exacting, ill-tempered, and mean, 
and this was the state of affairs when the purchase of the 
revolver, in consequence of a burglar scare at Stoke New- 
ington, brought about the tragedy. 

One night Jack Hallewell returned home about eleven 
o’clock. Mrs. Hallewell had not gone to bed, and the 
supper was still on the table. The servant who attended 
to her master heard them quarrelling fiercely, and in her 
presence Hallewell in a fit of passion told his wife that 
some day if she wasn’t careful with her tongue he should 
“do” for her. That night the unhappy couple went to 
bed about midnight, and the servant heard one of them 
lock the door. 


DRAMAS OF LIFE. 


273 


The next morning, on taking up the hot water, she 
heard a curious sound as of someone groaning. Getting 
no answer to her knocking and her repeated inquiries as 
to what was the. matter, she became alarmed, and ran in 
next door for assistance. The gentleman next door came 
back with her, and not liking the appearance of things, 
went for a policeman, who assisted him to burst the door 
open. 

On entering the room they found Mrs. Hallewell N dead 
on the bed, which was saturated with blood, and her 
husband lying beside her, also bleeding and unconscious. 

On the bed, close to Hallewell’s hand, lay the revolver, 
two barrels of which had been discharged. 

Medical assistance was at once secured. The doctor 
declared Mrs. Halliwell to be quite dead, but ascertained 
that the husband was not mortally wounded. As soon as 
possible he was removed to another room, and a thorough 
police examination of the premises and the scene of the 
tragedy was at once made. 

“Supposed murder of a wife” was the newspaper re- 
port of the affair, the paucity of detail being explained by 
the statement that “ the police were very reticent on the 
matter.” As a matter of fact the police knew very little. 
The medical expert was convinced that the woman’s 
mortal wound was not self-inflicted, but that the man’s 
wound was, and as soon as it was considered safe to 
move him, John Hallewell was arrested and conveyed to 
prison on a charge of wilfully murdering his wife. 

Will Darlington was horrified when he received the 
first intimation of what had happened through the 
newspapers. 

“My God!” he cried; “the revolver I bought him. 
Poor Jack — Poor Jack ! ” 

Darlington took his friend’s case up at once. He didn’t 
know what he hoped to do. The facts were damning, 
and he himself had not the slightest doubt that in a moment 

18 


274 


DRAMAS OF LIFE. 


of mad passion his unhappy friend had shot his wife, and 
then attempted to destroy himself. 

“So this is the end of that accursed marriage !” he 
said to himself, as he sat down to think his plans out. 
“Poor Jack, what he must have suffered before he went 
mad and did this dreadful thing.” 

Mad! Yes, that was the one chance. Every effort 
must be made to prove that Jack’s reason had been affected 
by the mental torture his wife had inflicted upon him. 

Darlington was not allowed to see the accused man, 
who was still suffering from the effects of his wound ; but 
he ascertained who was the solicitor who had the defence 
in hand, and went to see him at once. From the solicitor 
he ascertained all that there was to know. 

Jack Hallewell had made a statement, in which he per- 
sisted that all he knew of the affair was this : 

On the night of the 22nd of February he went to bed 
about midnight. His wife locked the door, as was the 
usual custom. There had been a quarrel, he admitted, 
downstairs, but after they got upstairs it was not renewed. 
His wife was silent and sullen, and neither of them 
spoke. 

He fell asleep, and knew nothing more until a noise 
awoke him, followed by a sharp pain. He started up, 
and felt the pistol in his hand. He thought he heard his 
wife utter an exclamation, and he was under the impres- 
sion that the second barrel of the pistol was discharged 
while the weapon was in his hand, but he fainted and re- 
mained unconscious from his wound until he was found 
later on and the door was burst open. 

The accused man could not fix the time, but he thought 
it was just getting light. This tallied with the servant’s 
evidence, who said she fancied she heard a couple of 
noises, one directly after the other, about seven in the 
morning. She slept right at the top of the house, and 
though the sounds woke her out of her sleep she did not 


DRAMAS OF LIFE . 


275 

fancy that it was a pistol or that it was in the house. 
Some building- was going on in the neighborhood and the 
striking of the hammers on the ironwork occasionally 
woke her at seven, which was the time the men com- 
menced. It was considered by the police most probable 
that the noises the girl heard were the two pistol reports. 

This was all that the solicitor for the defence had to tell 
Darlington, except that every effort was being made to 
prove that it was no wilful or deliberate murder; but in 
the absence of any witnesses to the occurrence and with 
the fact that the revolver had only recently been purchased 
and that the husband had on the previous night threatened 
his wife in the presence of the servant, this was likely to 
be a very difficult matter. 

The police to whom Darlington went were polite to him, 
and gave him all the information they could as to docu- 
ments, etc., that had been found in the house, but they 
maintained that there was absolutely nothing which threw 
any light on the crime. They had carefully examined the 
wife’s papers and found nothing except a few paid and 
unpaid bills and a little memorandum book. The book 
was recently purchased evidently, and it contained no 
memoranda of importance. In fact there were only two 
entries in it ; one was the address of a hairdresser in Lon- 
don, and the other was an address abroad, being simply — 

“ Fonda de la Paz (Hotel de la Paix), 

Monte Video.” 

“ What the deuce did she want with an address in Monte 
Video ? ” exclaimed Darlington. 

“Can't say,” replied the Inspector, to whom Darlington 
had gone for information. “Perhaps she’s had some 
friends who’d gone out there.” 

The time passed on and Jack Hallewell was sufficiently 
recovered to be placed upon his trial. He pleaded “not 


DRAMAS OF LIFE. 


276 

guilty,” and the witnesses for the prosecution were called. 
The case for the police was damning, even poor Darling- 
ton, an unwilling witness, having to admit that he sup- 
plied the prisoner with a revolver at his own request a week 
previously, and that the revolver found on the scene of 
f the murder was the same. The servant deposed to the 
unhappy life her master and mistress lead, though she tried 
good-naturedly to make out that the fault was mostly the 
“ missus’s.” Unfortunately, too, evidence was forthcom- 
ing to show that Hallewell was jealous of his wife, and 
that he had latterly accused her of thinking more of a for- 
mer lover than of himself. This gentleman’s name came 
out at the trial. It was Richard Trewavas. For Richard 
Trewavas the police had made inquiries in case he might 
be able to throw any light upon the affair, but all they could 
ascertain was that a month previously he had left Eng- 
land for South America. The counsel for the defence 
made a point of this evidence when it came to the question 
of motive. A husband, he argued, was hardly likely to 
kill his wife because he was jealous of a man in South 
America. 

Will Darlington made a mental note of this South Ameri- 
can business. He remembered the address, “Fonda de la 
Paz, Monte Video,” which had been found in the dead 
woman’s memorandum book, and he made up his mind 
that this was the address of Richard Trewavas, and that 
Julia Hallewell had been in correspondence with him in 
England, and had obtained his address from him in order 
that she might write to him abroad. 

The medical evidence was dead against the prisoner. 
The shot which had killed Mrs. Hallewell the experts said 
could not have been fired by herself. The pistol was un- 
doubtedly in her husband’s hand at the time she was killed. 
As to its being an accident, as the counsel for the defence 
ingeniously tried to make out, that was difficult to believe. 
Supposing that John Hallewell, keeping his revolver 


DRAMAS OF LIFE. 


2 77 

under his pillow, which he said he never did, had got hold 
of it in his sleep, and discharged it, he might have killed 
his wife, but he couldn’t very well have shot himself by 
accident at the same time ; and indeed, in the statement 
made by the prisoner, he himself declared that he didn’t 
know how he came to be shot. 

In spite of the efforts of the counsel for his defence, who 
dwelt upon the danger of accepting purely circumstantial 
evidence, and the fact that the only witness of the deed 
was dead, and all the rest was mere conjecture, the jury 
found the prisoner guilty. 

The prisoner on being asked if he had anything to say 
why the sentence of the law should not be pronounced 
upon him, looked sadly round the court until his eye 
rested upon Will Darlington, and then, speaking more to 
him than to the judge, said in a clear voice, “ I am not 
guilty, my lord. I have no knowledge how the accident 
happened, for accident it must have been. I neither delib- 
erately took that pistol in my hand nor deliberately dis- 
charged it. Had I intended to commit suicide, I should 
have shot myself in the mouth or in the head — not in the 
breast. That is all I have to say.” 

The speech, short as it was, especially the latter portion 
of it, made a profound impression in court. The manner 
was perhaps more impressive than the matter, and the 
prisoner’s demeanor all through the trial had won him a 
great many friends. 

The judge informed the prisoner that he had had a fair 
trial, etc.; that a jury of his fellow-countrymen, etc., and 
uttered all the usual platitudes with which the ears of con- 
demned prisoners are regaled, and then putting on the 
black cap, passed sentence of death. 

Jack Hallewell received his sentence with his head 
bowed. Will Darlington, who had nerved himself to re- 
main in court till the last, broke utterly down and sobbed. 
The condemned man looked up and caught his friend’s 


DRAMAS OF LIFE . 


278 

tearful eyes fixed upon him. As they led him from the 
dock Darlington pressed through the crowd and cried, 
“God bless you, Jack,” and Hallewell answered him 
softly, “I’m innocent, Will, goodbye.” 

When Will Darlington got out of the court into the open 
air he felt like a man in a dream. Had he really been 
assisting at the condemnation to death of his old friend 
Jack Hallewell. He had to repeat it to himself, again 
and again : “Jack is to be hanged, Jack is to be hanged,” 
before he could realize in all its ghastly horror the terrible 
situation. 

“And he is innocent,” he cried to himself, as he dashed 
the tears from his eyes. “They were his last words to 
me, and as I believe in a God above I believe in the 
innocence of my friend.” 

Will Darlington was not the only person deeply af- 
feted by the condemnation of John Hallewell. The pub- 
lic press took the case up, and there being a dearth of 
news, made much of it and opened their columns to corre- 
spondence on the subject. It was generally felt that though 
the evidence circumstantially was undoubtedly in favor 
of the prisoner’s guilt, yet after all it was wholly and 
purely circumstantial. The public responded to the ap- 
peal of the sentimentalists, and public meetings were 
held, and the Home Secretary was worried a good deal 
about the case, both in and out of Parliament. 

Will Darlington was untiring in his efforts, and event- 
ually the newspapers announced about two days before 
the day appointed for John Hallewell’s execution that the 
capital sentence had been commuted to one of penal 
servitude for life. 

The great mass of the public were satisfied with the de- 
cision. The sentimentalists were satisfied, because their 
great objection is to the death’penalty, and Jack Halle- 
well, being a man who had killed his wife, and not a 
pretty and romantic young woman who had killed her 


Eft A MAS OF LIFE. 


279 

husband, his case was allowed to drop by all but a faith- 
ful few, chief among whom was Will. 

The moment he knew that his friend’s life was no 
longer in peril. Will determined to devote himself to 
obtaining every possible clue which might eventually 
lead to the establishment of Jack’s innocence, for of that 
innocence he was assured. 

He did not disguise from himself that he had a most 
difficult task. The only possible theory was an accident, 
and who was going to prove an accident when there 
were no eye-witnesses. 

Darlington had obtained an interview with the con- 
demned man, and had besought him to give him every 
detail. 

“ I can tell you nothing,” said Hallewell, “except that 
I woke up in pain which must have been caused by the 
bullet wound, and the pistol was in my hand. It went 
off, I think, after I awoke — my finger must have been on 
the trigger, and I heard Julia utter a cry.” 

“ But how did the pistol come in your hand — where 
did you put it when you went to bed that night Jack ? ” 

“ I never saw it that night, Will. After you gave it me 
I took it home and I put it in an empty drawer in 
the bedroom. I told my wife not to touch it as it was 
loaded.” 

“What do you want with a loaded pistol ?” she asked. 
And I told her what I told you — that it was in case of 
burglars. 

“I swear to you, Will, that from the night I took it 
from you and loaded it at home, and put it away, I never 
saw or touched that pistol until I woke up with it in my 
hand.” 

“Jack, what do you think yourself? For God's sake 
tell me, if you have any idea.” 

Jack Hallewell shrugged his shoulders. “ It is difficult 
to form an idea,” he said. “The whole affair seems like 


DRAMAS OF LIFE. 


280 

a nightmare to me now. Only the prison walls assure 
me of its reality. But there is not one thing that I can 
see that is possible. If I didn’t get out of bed in my 
sleep and take the pistol out of the drawer somebody 
must have got it and brought it to the bed, and as the door 
was locked that person could only have been Julia.” 

“You believe that she got the pistol to shoot herself?” 

“Well, I woke up shot, so the chances are that she got 
it to shoot me. Unless she was alarmed at a noise, and 
got the pistol to put under the pillow, and in my sleep I 
caught hold of it, and shot myself, and in her struggling 
to take it away from me the second barrel went off and 
killed her. But it is all conjecture, Will, all mere conjec- 
ture. I shall end my days within the prison walls, and 
go to my grave an accepted murderer. God help me ! 
don’t let me think about it.” 


Will Darlington was in despair. What clue was there 
that he could follow — who could tell him anything ? Sud- 
denly the name of Richard Trewavas occurred to him. 
What did that address in the memorandum book of 
the murdered woman mean ? 

Should he find Richard Trewavas ? And, if he did, 
what could Trewavas tell him? That he had been in 
correspondence with Julia Hallewell. Nothing he could 
say could throw any light upon the death-scene of that 
locked chamber. Still, if only to try and learn whether 
Trewavas and Julia had been in correspondence, Darling- 
ton would find him. 

He had ascertained that he had left England a month 
before the murder, and that his destination was South 
America. Convinced that it was his address at Monte 
Video which Mrs. Hallewell had entered, he got his 
solicitors to write out to Monte Video and make inquiries 
for Julia Hallewell’s former lover at the Fonda de la Paz. 


DRAMAS OF LIFE. 


28r 


They wrote to their agents in the town, and the answer 
received was that Mr. Richard Trewavas had not been 
there, but that there was a letter lying at the hotel for 
him which had been there for some time. 

“ A letter for him ! Perhaps from Mrs. Hallewell her- 
self — written before that fatal night,” said Will Darlington. 
“She had entered his address to write to him. I wonder 
if the letter is from her. If it is, it is the voice of the dead 
speaking to the living.” 

The solicitor was not quite romantic enough to see it in 
that light, but he agreed that if the letter was from the 
lady it might throw some light on the affair, though why 
it should he could not say. Darlington, who was eager 
to know everything, agreed to be at the expense of the 
telegrams, and the agent was wired to examine the letter 
and say if it was a male or female handwriting, and to 
note the postmark. 

The reply was that the letter was in a female hand — 
that the postmark was London, February 226 ., and that 
the envelope bore on the back the monogram “ J. H.” 

“Julia Hallewell ! ” exclaimed Darlington, “and posted 
the day before the murder ! ” 

The letter was lying there, and Richard Trewavas had 
never called to claim it. What would not Will Darlington 
give for it! How was it to be obtained? Darlington 
thought the matter over, and made inquiries about Tre- 
wavas. He had been heard from in the interim. He had 
altered his route, having obtained employment up the 
country, and was not going to Monte Video. He had 
forgotten, in all probability, the address he had given to 
Julia Hallewell. 

Darlington was possessed with a mad idea to get that 
letter. He had a presentiment that it would help him in 
the difficult task he had undertaken. So strong was this 
presentiment that Tie determined to get the letter at all 
risks and hazards, His first visit was to the inspector who 


282 


DRAMAS OF LIFE . 


had charge of the case, and with whom he had since 
become friendly. 

“ Help me to get that letter if you can,” he said, “for, 
as I am a living man, I believe it will tell us something 
about that fatal day that we none of us know. If she was 
writing to this man it was with a deliberate object. Sup- 
pose she was going to leave her husband and join him ? ” 

“Well,” said the inspector, “that would prove nothing. 
Still, there may be something in the letter, and I should 
like to see it myself. We’ll do the next best thing — we’ll 
have a copy.” 

The copy was obtained by the Monte Video police for 
their colleagues in London in this charming way : 

A gentleman entered the hotel one day and went to the 
hotel letter rack, took the letter out, took it away, copied 
it, then sealed it up, and took it back again. “Pardon, 
madame,” he said to the manageress, “I have taken a 
letter by mistake.” 

Then an exact copy was sent to the London police, and 
the inspector receiving it, sent for Darlington at once and 
read it to him. 

It was a short letter, but very much to the purpose : 

“Dear Dick, — I am free. My husband, who has not 
been right in his head for a long time, committed suicide 
last night. Dick, I am free — free and rich — I shall have 
enough for both. Say the word and let me come out to 
you. I will write all particulars by next mail. I scribble 
this line to catch the mail, which I find leaves to-night. 
Ever yours, Julia.” 

The postmark on the envelope was February 2 2d. On 
the night of the 2 2d, or, rather, early on the morning of 
the 23d, the supposed murder took place. And yet, hours 
before her husband woke with that pistbl in his hand, she 
was writing to her lover that he had committed suicide. 


DRAMAS OF LIFE . 283 

“My God !” cried Darlington, as the inspector finished 
the letter. “She knew what was going to happen — it was 
all arranged.” 

“It looks like it,” said the inspector. 

“ Then — if that is so ! ” exclaimed Darlington, “it was 
she who took the pistol from the drawer that night — not 
her husband.” 

“Well?” 

“ Well, don’t you see now how it fits in with my poor 
friend’s statement? This woman wanted to join her 
lover, who was poor. She wanted to be rich, and to be 
free, and she arranged that the husband she hated should 
commit suicide. I can see the whole thing now. She got 
that pistol early in the morning, while Jack, who is a 
heavy sleeper, was in a deep slumber. She put the pistol 
in his hand, and his finger on the trigger, intending him 
to shoot himself, in order that it might appear to be 
suicide. Then she would have leapt out of bed and 
alarmed the servant, and called the police. But she forgot 
that it was a six-chamber revolver.” 

“She helped the sleeping man to shoot himself; but 
when he woke up with a start, another barrel went off, 
and she received her death wound.” 

That was Darlington’s theory. From the moment he 
formed it he never gave the authorities a moment’s peace. 
The copy of the letter addressed to Trewavas was laid 
before the Home Secretary, who, having ascertained 
beyond doubt that it was genuine, made a fresh inquiry* 
into the whole case, and eventually, fully satisfied that 
the wife had fallen a victim to her own plot for making 
her husband commit suicide, graciously recommended 
Her Majesty to grant him a free pardon, and communi- 
cated facts to the press which were a complete vindication 
of Jack Hallewell’s innocence. 

Jack Hallewell owes his liberty to the untiring devotion 
of his friend, Will Darlington. He (Jack) is fully con- 


284 


DRAMAS OF LIFE. 


vinced that his friend’s theory is the correct one, for it fits 
in with all that he remembers of that awful awakening. 

Mr. Richard Trewavas has not yet called at the Fonda 
de la Paz for his letter. He is probably still “ up country/' 
and has troubled- his mind very little about the woman 
who was willing to murder her husband for his sake. Men 
do not always appreciate these sacrifices so much as the 
ladies would like them to. Still it is very fortunate that 
Julia Hallewell was anxious to keep his affection. Had 
she not been, she would not have written him the letter 
which proved that twelve hours before her husband shot 
her she had condemned him to death. 

Moral : Never count your suicides before they have 
taken place. That is the moral for lady readers. The 
moral for gentlemen readers is this : Don’t marry pretty 
bookkeepers at hotels unless you are thoroughly satisfied 
that they are quite off with all their old lovers, and then 
they will make good and faithful and loving wives. 

Unhappy and ill-assorted marriages are at the bottom 
of half the crime and half the misery in the world, and 
they are the foundation of some of the most terrible 
Dramas of Life. 


THE END. 


THE MILITARY ROMANCES OF 


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III. CHARLES O’MALLEY THE IRISH DRAGOON, CON CREGAN THE 
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33. Uncle Piper of Piper’s Hill. By Tasma 30 

34. A Life Sentence. By Adeline Sergeant 30 

35. Kit Wyndham. By Frank Barrett. 30 

36. The Tree of Knowledge. By G. M. Robins 30 

37. Roland Oliver. By Justin McCarthy 30 

38. Sheba. By Rita 30 

39. Sylvia Arden. By Oswald Crawfurd 30 

40. Young Mr. Ainslie’s Courtship. By P. C. Philips T 30 

41. The Haute Noblesse. By George M anville Fenn 30 

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44. Nurse Revel’s Mistake. By Florence Warden 30 

45. Arminell. By S. Baring-Gould 50 

46. The Lament of Dives. By Walter Besant 30 

47. Mrs. Bob. By John Strange Winter 30 

48. Was Ever Woman in this Humor Wooed. By Chas. Gibbon 30 

49. The Mynns Mystery. By George Man ville Fenn 30 

50. Hedri. By Helen Mathers 30 

51. The Bondman. By Hall Caine 30 

i ’. A Girl of the People. By L. T. Meade 30 

. . Twenty Novelettes. By Twenty Prominent Novelists 30 

A Family Without A Name. By Jules Verne 30 

A Sydney Sovereign. By Tasma 30 

ti. A March in the Ranks. By Jessie Fothergill. . 30 

Our Erring Brother. By F. W. Robinson 30 

Misadventure. By W. E. Norris 30 

l Plain Tales from the Hills. By Rudyard Kipling 50 

60. Dinna Forget. By John Strange Winter 30 

61. Cosette. By Katherine S. Macquoid 30 

62. Master of His Fate. By J. Maclaren Cobban 30 


CONTINUED ON THIRD PAGE OF COVER. 


63. A Very Strange Family. By F. W. Robin on 

64. The Kilburns. By Annie Thomas. 

65. The Firm op Girdlestone. By A. Conan Doyle 

66. In Her Earliest Youth. By Tasma 

67. The Lady Egeria. By J. B. Harwood 

68. A True Friend. By Adeline Sergeant 

69. The Little Chatelaine. By The Earl of Desart 

70. Children op To-Morrow. By William Shaip 

71. The Haunted Fountain and Hetty’s Revenge. By Ivatl arino S. 

Macquoid 

72. A Daughter’s Sacrifice. By F. C. Philips ai d Percy Fendall 

73. Hauntings. By Vernon Lee 

74. A Smuggler’s Secret. By Frank Barrett 

75. Kestell op Greystone. By Esme Stuart 

76. The Talking Image op Urer. By Franz Hartmann, M.D 

77. A Scarlet Sin. By Florence Marryatt 

78. By Order of the Czar. By Joseph Hatton 

79. The Sin op Joost Avelingh. By Maarten Maartens 

80. A Born Coquette. By “The Duchess” 

81. The Burnt Million. By James Payn 

82. A Womam’s Heart. By Mrs. Alexander 

83. Syrlin. By Ouida 

84. The Rival Princess. By Justin McCarthy and Mrs. C. Praed 

85. Blindfold. By Florence Marryatt 

86. The Parting op the Ways. By Betham-Edwards 

87. The Failure op Elisabeth. By E. Frances Poynter 

88. Eli's Children. By George Manville Fenn 

89. The Bishop’s Bible. By David Christie Murray and Henry Hermann 

90. April’s Lady. By “ The Duchess.” 

91. Violet Vyvian, M. F. H. By May Crommelin 

92. A Woman op the World. By F. Mabel Robinson 

93. The Baffled Conspirators. By W. E. Norris 

94. Strange Crimes. By William Westall 

95. Dishonoured. By Theo. Gift 

96. The Mystery op M. Felix. By B. L. Farjeon 

97. With Essex in Ireland. By Hon. Emily Lawless 

98. Soldiers Three and Other Stories. By Rudyard Kipling 

99. Whose was the Hand? By M. E. Braddon 

100. The Blind Musician. By Stepniak and William Westall 

101. The House on the Scar. By Bertha Thomas 

103. The Phantom Rickshaw. By Rudyard Kipling 

104. The Love op a Lady. By Annie Thomas 

105. How Came He Dead? By J. Fitzgerald Molloy 

106. The Vicomte’s Bride. By Esme Stuart 

107. A Reverend Gentleman. By J. Maclaren'Cobban 

108. Notes from the ‘News.’ By James Pa’ n ! 

109. The Keeper op the Keys. By F. W. R binson 

110. The Scudamores. By F- C. Philips and C. J. Wills 

111. The Confessions op a Woman. By Mabel Collins 

112. Sowing the Wind. By E. Lynn Linton 

114. Margaret Byng. By F. C. Philips 

115 For One and the World. By M. Betham-Edwards 

116. Princess Sunshine. By Mrs. J. H. Riddell < 

117. Slc^ne Square Scandal. By Annie Thomas 

115. The Night op 3rd ult. By FT. F. Wood.. 

119. Quite Another Story. By Jean Ingelow 

120. Heart op Gold. By L. T. Meade 

121. The Word and the Will. By James Payn 

122. Dumps. By Mrs. Louisa Parr 

123. The Black Box Murder.. 

124. The Great Mill St. Mystery. By Adeline bargeant 

125. Between Life and Death. By Frank Barrett 

126. Name and Fame. By Adeline Sargeant and Ewing Lester 

127. Dramas op Life. By George R. Sims 

128. Lover or Friend? By Rosa Nouchette Carey 

129. Famous or Infamous. By Bertha Thomas 

130. The House of Halliwell. By Mrs. II. F. Wood 

131. Ruffino. By Ouida 

132. Alas. By lihoda Broughton 


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1889 


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